UC-NRLF 


B   M   720 


J 


BITS   OF  TALK 
FOR     YOUNG     FOLKS 


(From  a  fresco  of  Titian s  in  the  Doge's  Palace,    Venice.} 

ST.   CHRISTOPHER.  —  PAGE  7- 


BITS  OF   TALK, 


IN  VERSE  AND  PROSE, 


FOR     YOUNG     FOLKS. 


BY  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.), 
it 

AUTHOR     OF     "KITS     OK     TALK     ABOUT     HOME    MATTERS,' 

"BITS  OF  TRAVEL,"  "VERSES." 


" in  all  the  lands 

No  such  morning-glory."  —  PAGE  133. 

BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
1892. 


(/-mm  a  fresco  of  Titian?  itt  tkt  Doge's  Palacf, 

ST.   CHRISTOPHER. —  PAGE  7. 


BITS   OF   TALK, 


IN  VERSE  AND  PROSE, 


FOR     YOUNG     FOLKS. 


BY  HELEN   JACKSON  (H.  H.), 

\y 

AUTHOR   OF   "  BITS    OF   TALK   ABOUT   HOME  MATTERS," 
"BITS  OF  TRAVEL,"   "VERSES." 


" in  all  tlie  lands 

No  such  morning-glory."  —  PAGE  133. 

BOSTON: 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 
1892. 


Copyright,  1876, 
'.Br  RO 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  JOHN  WILSON  &  SON, 
CAMBRIDGE. 


PS  2.1  07 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

The  Parable  of  St.  Christopher        .        .        .        .  7 

A  Christmas-Tree  for  Cats 18 

The  Legend  of  St.  Nicholas 38 

My  Ant's  Cow 45 

St.  Martin's  Cloak 5? 

RunnaRig 60 

The  Palace  of  Gondoforus 81 

The  Ant's  Monday  Dinner 87 

The  Nest   .       .       . 97 

The  Festival  of  San  Eustachio  in  Rome  ...  99 

Colorado  Snow-birds I*2 

The  Water-works  of  Heilbrun          .        .        .        .117 

Morning-Glory 133 

Children's  Preaching  in  the  Church  of  Ara  Coeli 

in  Rome 134 

1  'The  Penny  ye  meant  to  gi'e"       ....  145 

A  Parable •        •  147 

My  Broken-winged  Bird 165 

Cheery  People 167 

A  Short  Catechism 173 


W57591 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Expression  of  Kooms 179 

By  Stage  to  Boston .195 

Good  Temper 197 

Lizzy  of  La  Bourget 211 

Kicking  against  Pricks 215 

My  First  Voyage  Hound  the  World         .        .        .225 
'•A  Good  Time"  ,    231 


BITS    OF   TALK, 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.   CHRISTOPHER. 

a  king's  court  a  giant  came, — 
"  O  king,  both  far  and  near 
I  seek,"  he  said,  "  the  greatest  king, 
And  thou  art  he,  I  hear. 

"  If  it  please  thee,  I  will  abide; 
To  thee  my  knee  shall  bend; 
Only  unto  the  greatest  kings 
Can  giants  condescend." 

Right  glad  the  king  the  giant  took 

Into  his  service  then, 
For  since  Goliath's  mighty  days 

No  man  so  big  was  seen. 

Well  pleased  the  giant,  too,  to  serve 

The  greatest  king  on  earth ; 
He  served  him  well,  in  peace,  in  war, 

In  sorrow,  and  in  mirth, 

7 


BITS  OF  TALK. 

'Till  -came  a1  wandering  minstrel  by, 
'  .'One  tfay,  who  plaYcd  and  sang 
Wild  songs,  through  which  the  devil  s  name 
Profanely,  loudly  rang. 

Astonished  then  the  giant  saw 

The  king  look  sore  afraid  ; 
At  mention  of  the  devil's  name, 

The  cross's  sign  he  made. 


"  How  now,  my  master  I    Why  dost  thou 

Make  on  thy  breast  this  sign?" 
He  said.    "  It  is  a  spell,"  replied 
The  king  —  "  a  spell  divine, 

"  Which  shall  the  devil  circumvent, 

And  keep  me  safe  and  whole 
From  all  the  wicked  arts  he  tries 
To  slay  my  precious  soul." 

"  O,  ho,  my  master  I  then  he  is 
More  powerful  than  thou  I 
They  lied  who  called  thee  greatest  king; 
I  leave  thy  service  now, 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER.     9 

"  And  seek  the  devil;  him  will  I 

My  master  call  henceforth," 
The  giant  cried,  and  strode  away 
Contemptuous  and  wroth. 


He  found  the  devil  soon.    I  ween 

The  devil  waited  near, 
Well  pleased  to  have  this  mighty  man 

Within  his  ranks  appear. 

They  journeyed  on  full  many  a  day, 
And  now  the  giant  deemed 

At  last  he  had  a  master  found, 
Who  was  the  king  he  seemed. 

But  lo!  one  day  they  came  apace 
To  where  four  roadways  met, 

And  at  the  meeting  of  the  roads 
A  cross  of  stone  was  set. 

The  devil  trembled  and  fell  back, 

And  said,  "  We  go  around." 
"  Now  tell  me,"  fierce  the  giant  cried, 
«  Why  fearest  thou  this  ground  ?  " 


10  BITS  OF  TALK. 

The  devil  would  not  answer.    "  Then 
I  leave  thee,  master  mine," 

The  giant  said.    "  Of  something  wrong 
This  mystery  is  sign." 

Then  answered  him  the  fiend,  ashamed : 
"  'Tvvas  there  Christ  Jesus  died; 

"Wherever  stands  a  cross  like  that, 
I  may  not,  dare  not  bide." 

"  Ho,  ho  I  "  the  giant  cried  again, 
Surprised  again,  perplexed ; 

"  Then  Jesus  is  the  greatest  king, — 
I  seek  and  serve  him  next." 


The  king  named  Jesus,  far  and  near, 

The  weary  giant  sought ; 
His  name  was  everywhere  proclaimed, 

His  image  sold  and  bought, 

His  power  vaunted,  and  his  laws 

Upheld  by  sword  and  fire ; 
But  him  the  giant  sought  in  vain, 

Until  he  cried  in  ire, 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHEISTOPHEE.    \  i 

One  winter  eve,  as  late  he  came 

Upon  a  hermit's  cell : 
"  Now  by  my  troth,  tell  me,  good  saint, 
Where  doth  thy  master  dwell  ? 

•'  For  I  have  sought  him  far  and  wide, 

By  leagues  of  land  and  sea ; 
I  seek  to  be  his  servant  true, 
In  honest  fealty. 

"  I  have  such  strength  as  kings  desire, 

State  to  their  state  to  lend; 
But  only  to  the  greatest  king 
Can  giants  condescend." 

Then  said  the  hermit,  pale  and  wan: 

"  Oh,  giant  man  I  indeed 
The  King  thou  seekest  doth  all  kings 

In  glorious  power  exceed ; 

"  But  they  who  see  him'face  to  face, 

In  full  communion  clear, 
Crowned  with  his  kingdom's  splendor  bright, 
Must  buy  the  vision  dear. 


I2  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  Dwell  here,  O  brother,  and  thy  lot 

With  ours  contented  cast, 
And  first,  that  flesh  be  well  subdued, 
For  days  and  nights  thou'lt  fast  I " 

"  I  fast !  "  the  giant  cried,  amazed. 

"  Good  saint,  I'll  no  such  thing. 
My  strength  would  fail ;  without  that,  I 
Were  fit  to  serve  no  king ! " 

"  Then  thou  must  pray,"  the  hermit  said; 

"  We/ kneel  on  yonder  stone, 
And  tell  these  beads,  and  for  each  bead 
A  prayer,  one  by  one." 

The  giant  flung  the  beads  away, 

Laughing  in  scornful  pride, 
"  I  will  not  wear  my  knees  on  stones; 
I  know  no  prayers,"  he  cried. 


Then  said  the  hermit,  "  Giant,  since 
Thou  canst  not  fast  nor  pray, 

I  know  not  if  our  Master  will 
Save  thee  some  other  way. 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER.    13 

"  But  go  down  to  yon  river  deep, 

Where  pilgrims  daily  sink, 

And  build  for  thee  a  little  hut 

Close  on  the  river's  brink, 

"  And  carry  travellers  back  and  forth 

Across  the  raging  stream ; 
Perchance  this  service  to  our  King 
A  worthy  one  will  seem." 

"  Now  that  is  good,"  the  giant  cried; 

"  That  work  I  understand; 
A  joyous  task  'twill  be  to  bear 
Poor  souls  from  land  to  land, 

"  Who,  but  for  me,  would  sink  and  drown. 

Good  saint,  thou  hast  at  length 
Made  mention  of  a  work  which  is 
Fit  for  a  giant's  strength." 

For  many  a  year,  in  lowly  hut, 

The  giant  dwelt  content 
Upon  the  bank,  and  back  and  forth 

Across  the  stream  he  went, 


14  BITS  OF  TALK. 

And  on  his  giant  shoulders  bore 

All  travellers  who  came, 
By  night,  by  day,  or  rich  or  poor, 

All  in  King  Jesus'  name. 

But  much  he  doubted  if  the  King 
His  work  would  note  or  know, 

And  often  with  a  weary  heart 
He  waded  to  and  fro. 

One  night,  as  wrapped  in  sleep  he  lay, 

He  sudden  heard  a  call : 
"  Oh,  Christopher,  come  carry  me  I  " 
He  sprang,  looked  out,  but  all 

"Was  dark  and  silent  on  the  shore. 

"  It  must  be  that  I  dreamed," 
He  said,  and  laid  him  down  again ; 

But  instantly  there  seemed 

Again  the  feeble,  distant  cry: 
"Oh,  come  and  carry  me  I  " 

Again  he  sprang,  and  looked ;  again 
No  living  thing  could  see. 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHEISTOPHEE.    15 

The  third  time  came  the  plaintive  voice, 

Like  infant's  soft  and  weak ; 
With  lantern  strode  the  giant  forth, 

More  carefully  to  seek. 


Down  on  the  bank  a  little  child 
He  found,  —  a  piteous  sight,  — 

Who,  weeping,  earnestly  implored 
To  cross  that  very  night. 

With  gruff  good- will  he  picked  him  up, 

And  on  his  neck  to  ride, 
He  tossed  him,  as  men  play  with  babes, 

And  plunged  into  the  tide. 

But  as  the  water  closed  around 
His  knees,  the  infant's  weight 

Grew  heavier  and  heavier, 
Until  it  was  so  great 

The  giant  scarce  could  stand  upright; 

His  staff  shook  in  his  hand, 
His  mighty  knees  bent  under  him, 

He  barely  reached  the  land, 


!0  BITS  OF  TALK. 

And,  staggering,  set  the  infant  down, 
And  turned  to  scan  his  face ; 

When,  lo  I  he  saw  a  halo  bright 
Which  lit  up  all  the  place. 

Then  Christopher  fell  down  afraid 

At  marvel  of  the  thing, 
And  dreamed  not  that  it  was  the  face 

Of  Jesus  Christ,  his  King, 

Until  the  infant  spoke,  and  said: 
"  Oh,  Christopher,  behold! 

J  am  the  Lord  whom  thou  hast  served  I 
Rise  up,  be  glad  and  bold! 

"  For  I  have  seen  and  noted  well 

Thy  works  of  charity ; 
And  that  thou  art  my  servant  good, 
A  token  thou  shalt  see. 

"  Plant  firmly  here  upon  this  bank 

Thy  stalwart  staff  of  pine, 
And  it  shall  blossom  and  bear  fruit, 
This  very  hour,  in  sign." 


THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER, 

Then,  vanishing,  the  infant  smiled. 

The  giant,  left  alone, 
Saw  on  the  bank,  with  luscious  dates, 

His  stout  pine  staff  bent  down. 

For  many  a  year,  St.  Christopher 
Served  God  in  many  a  land  ; 

And  master  painters  drew  his  face, 
With  loving  heart  and  hand, 

On  altar  fronts  and  church's  walls  ; 

And  peasants  used  to  say, 

To  look  on  good  St.  Christopher 

Brought  luck  for  all  the  day. 

I  think  the  lesson  is  as  good 

To-day  as  it  was  then  — 
As  good  to  us  called  Christians 

As  to  the  heathen  men  : 


The  lesson  of  St.  Christopher, 
Who  spent  his  strength  for  others, 

And  saved  his  soul  by  working  hard 
To  help  arid  save  his  brothers  I 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


A   CHEISTMAS-TREE   FOR  CATS. 

"XT  7IIEN  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  knew  two 
old  maids  who  were  so  jolly  and  nice 
that  I  am  always  ready,  beforehand,  to  love 
anybody  who  is  called  an  old  maid.  To 
be  sure  I  have  never  yet  seen  any  others  in 
the  least  like  them ;  and  I  begin  to  be  afraid 
that  that  particular  kind  of  old  maid  has  died 
out,  like  the  big  birds  called  Dodos,  which 
used  to  live  in  Australia.  But  I  am  always 
hoping  to  see  two  more  before  I  die,  and 
that  I  shall  find  them  living  together  in  a 
pretty  little  yellow  cottage,  just  like  the  one 
the  Miss  Ferrys  lived  in,  and  that  they  will 
keep  four  splendid  cats,  just  like  the  cats 
the  Miss  Ferrys  had.  I  never  saw  such 
cats.  Nobody  ever  .saw  such  cats.  They 
were  almost  twice  as  large  as  common  cats. 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOR  CATS.  ig 

Miss  Esther  Ferry  used  to  say  that  if  there 
was  anything  in  the  world  she  utterly  despised 
the  sight  of,  it  was  a  little  dwarf  of  a  cat ; 
and  as  soon  as  she  began  to  talk  about  it, 
her  black  cat  Tom  used  to  stand  right  up 
and  bulge  himself  until  all  the  hairs  of  his 
fur  stood  out  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel. 
Tom  was  the  cleverest  cat  of  the  four.  He 
really  did  understand  more  than  half  of  all 
that  was  said  before  him,  and  sometimes 
Miss  Esther  used  to  send  him  out  of  the 
room  when  the  neighbors  were  telling  her 
any  gossiping  story.  "Of  course  I  know 
that  Tom  can't  repeat  it,"  she  would  say ; 
"  but  it  does  make  me  nervous  to  have  him 
listen  so,  and  he  is  just  as  well  oif  down 
cellar."  Tom  and  Spitfire  were  Miss  Esther's 
cats ;  we  thought  they  were  a  little  hand- 
riomer  than  Spunk  and  Yellow,  who  belonged 
to  Miss  Jane ;  but  I  think  it  was  only  be 
cause  we  loved  Miss  Esther  best  that  we 


2O  SITS  OF  TALK. 

thought  so.  Strangers  never  could  decide 
which  of  the  four  cats  was  the  best  looking. 
Tom  was  as  black  as  ink,  —  not  a  white  or 
gray  hair  about  him  ;  Spitfire  was  a  Maltese, 
of  the  loveliest  soft  mouse  color  all  over, 
with  a  great  white  star  on  her  breast ;  Spunk 
was  pure  white,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
topazes  in  the  sunlight ;  Yellow  was  a  tor 
toise-shell  cat,  black  and  yellow  and  white  : 
he  was  the  largest  and  fiercest  of  the  four. 
We  were  all  more  afraid  of  him  than  of  any 
dog  in  town.  You  will  hardly  believe  it, 
but  these  cats  used  to  sit  in  high  chairs  at 
the  table,  and  feed  themselves  with  their 
paws  like  squirrels.  They  had  little  tin 
plates,  with  their  names  stamped  on  them ; 
and  one  of  the  things  I  used  to  like  best  to 
do,  when  I  went  there  to  tea,  was  to  change 
their  plates,  and  then  watch  to  see  what 
they  would  do.  Yellow  was  the  only  one 
who  would  eat  out  of  any  plate  but  his 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOE  CATS.          21 

own ;  he  was  always  greedy,  and  did  not 
care.  But  the  others  would  look  down  at 
the  plate,  smell  of  it,  and  begin  to  mew ; 
and  once  black  Tom  jumped  right  across  the 
table  at  Spunk,  who  had  his  plate,  pushed 
her  out  of  her  chair,  and  dragged  the  plate 
away.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he  would 
let  her  come  back  to  the  table  without  spit 
ting  at  her.  But  the  best  time  we  ever  had 
in  that  dear  yellow  cottage  wras  at  a  Christ 
mas  party  which  the  old  ladies  gave  for  their 
cats.  I  don't  believe  there  was  ever  such  a 
thing  heard  of  before  or  since.  I  knew 
about  it  a  week  before  it  came  off,  and  it 
was  the  hardest  secret  I  ever  had  to  keep. 
My  mamma  came  home  one  evening  just  at 
dark.  I  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  a  dark 
corner,  where  she  could  not  see  me,  and 
papa  was  sitting  by  the  fire.  She  went  up 
to  his  chair  and  kissed  him,  and  burst  out 
into  such  a  laugh,  as  she  said,  "  Darling, 


22  SITS  OF  TALK. 

what  do  you  suppose  those  dear  absurd  old 
Ferry s  are  going  to  do  ?  They  are  going  to 
have  a  Christmas-tree  for  their  cats." 

"You  are  not  in  earnest,  Mary,"  said 
papa. 

"But  I  am,  though,"  said  mamma,  sitting 
down  on  his  knee,  and  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  It  makes  the  tears  come 
into*  my  eyes  even  now,  to  remember  how 
my  papa  and  mamma  used  to  love  each 
other.  Since  I  have  grown  up,  and  have 
seen  what  men  and  women  really  are,  I 
know  how  wonderful  jt  was.  They  have 
been  in  heaven  a  great  many  years,  but  it 
would  be  hard  to  make  me  believe  they  are 
very  much  happier  there  than  they  were 
here. 

"But  I  am.     You  always  think  I  am  jok 


ing." 


"Because    you   always   are,"   interrupted 
papa. 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOR  CATS.          23 

w  Don't  interrupt.  You  are  always  inter 
rupting,"  said  mamma.  "I  have  been  at 
the  Ferrys'  for  an  hour  this  afternoon,  and 
the  dear  old  souls  are  quite  beside  themselves 
about  it.  They  are  going  to  have  linen 
drilling  put  down  over  their  carpets,  and 
they  are  wondering  whether  it  will  do  to 
have  as  many  as  twenty  cats  in  the  room 
with  twenty  children." 

"  The  old  geese  !  "  exclaimed  papa,  who 
was  not  always  quite  as  civil  as  he  could 
be. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  mamma  thoughtfully. 
"I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  I  think  it 
will  be  great  fun ;  and  Helen  will  be  out  of 
her  senses." 

I  could  not  keep  still  any  longer.  I 
bounded  off  the  sofa,  crying,  "O  mamma, 
mamma,  am  I  really  to  go?  And  shall  I 
take  Midge  ?  " 

Midge  was  my  cat,  a  dowdy  little  gray 


24  BITS  OF  TALK. 

cat,  whom  nobody  ever  called  good-looking, 
but  whom  I  loved  dearly. 

"  Mercy  on  me  I "  screamed  mamma. 
"  How  yon  frightened  me  !  Yon  bad  child, 
1o  lie  still,  and  hear  secrets.  But  you  will 
be  punished  enough  by  having  to  keep  one 
for  a  week.  You  must  not  tell  a  soul. 
Nobody  knows  it  but  I,  and  the  Miss  Ferry s 
are  very  anxious  that  nothing  should  be  said 
about  it." 

People  talk  about  the  pleasure  of  antici 
pations.  I  never  could  see  it  when  I  was  a 
child,-aud  I  don't  now.  I  think  it  is  misery. 
That  week  was  the  most  uncomfortable  week 
of  my  life,  excepting  one  which  I  passed 
shut  up  in  the  garret  for  a  punishment,  after 
I  had  been  very  naughty.  If  it- had  not 
been  for  lying  on  the  hay-mow  with  Midge, 
and  talking  to  her  about  it,  I  know  I  should 
have  been  sick. 

At  last  the   invitations   came,  —  all   sent 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOR  CATS.          25 

out  in  one  forenoon,  two  days  before  Christ 
mas.  Such  a  hubbub  as  all  the  children  in 
town  were  in  !  The  invitations  were  written 
on  bright  pink  paper. 

"  The  Miss  Ferrys  request  the  pleasure  of 
your  company  on  Christmas  Eve,  from  six 
till  nine  o'clock. 

"  You  will  please  bring  your  cat.  There 
will  be  a  Christmas-tree  for  the  cats. 

"Each  cat  is  expected  to  wear  a  paper 
ruff. 

w  The  servants  can  be  sent  to  take  the  cats 
home  at  half-past  seven." 

I  did  not  know  what  a  ruff  was,  but 
mamma  explained  it  to  me,  and  showed  me 
the  picture  of  an  old  queen  in  one.  We 
cut  one  out,  and  put  it  on  Midge,  but  she 
tpre  it  off  in  about  half  a  minute ;  and 
mamma  said  that  if  the  cats  were  to  be 
kept  in  ruffs  through  the  entire  evening, 
she  thought  it  would  be  more  work  than 


26  BITS  OF  TALK. 

play ;  but  we  could  all  carry  half-a-dozen 
extra  ones  in  our  pockets,  and  put  them  on 
occasionally,  if  Miss  Esther  and  Miss  Jane 
thought  best.  I  had  six  for  Midge,  —  one 
red,  one  green,  one  blue,  and  three  white. 
We  thought  it  would  be  funnier  to  have  a 
variety  of  colors. 

By  quarter  before  six  o'clock,  on  Christ 
mas  Eve,  a  droll  procession  was  to  be  seen 
walking  towards  the  yellow  cottage.  Each 
boy  and  girl  carried  a  cat  hugged  up 
tightly,  and  as  it  was  pitchy  dark,  the 
cats'  eyes  shone  out  like  little  balls  of  fire 
moving  about  in  the  air.  We  had  a  dread 
ful  time  taking  off  our  things  in  the  hall, 
for  the  cats  all  began  to  mew,  they  were 
so  frightened.  We  all  wore  our  everyday 
gowns,  because  our  mammas  said  that  the 
cats  would  probably  fight,  and  spill  things ; 
but  Miss  Esther  and  Miss  Jane  were  dressed 
in  their  best  stiff  black  silks,  and  had  on 


, 

I       X 


§  £ 


A  CHEISTNAS-TEEE  FOE  CATS.          27 

their  biggest  gold  chains,  and  we  felt  quite 
ashamed  till  we  forgot  about  our  clothes.  I 
did  not  go  till  six  o'clock,  for  I  did  not 
want  to  have  Midge  the  first  cat  in  the  room, 
she  was  such  an  ugly  little  thing;  but  as 
soon  as  I  went  into  the  parlor,  I  laughed  so, 
that  I  dropped  her  right  on  the  floor,  and 
-she  put  her  paw  through  her  blue  ruff,  and 
tore  it  off,  before  Miss  Esther  had  seen  iv 

There  sat  Tom,  and  Spunk,  and  Spitfire, 
and  Yellow,  all  in  a  row,  in  their  high-chairs, 
with  enormous  paper  ruffs  on,  so  big  that 
ours  looked  like  nothing  at  all  by  the  side 
of  them.  Tom  had  a  white  one  ;  Spitfire 
had  a  deep  blue,  which  was  beautiful  with 
her  gray  fur;  Spunk  had  a  shining  black 
one ;  and  Yellow's  was  fiery  red.  There 
they  sat  as  solemn  as  judges,  and  everybody 
in  the  room  was  screaming  with  laughter. 

o  o 

Six  cats  beside  Midge  had  already  arrived, 
and  they  had  all  hid  under  the  chairs  and 


23  BITS  OF  TALK. 

tables,  the  perfect  pictures  of  misery.  Miss 
Esther  and  Miss  Jane  looked  very  proud  of 
their  cats,  who  really  did  behave  as  if  they 
had  been  all  their  lives  accustomed  to  re 
ceiving  company.  "However,"  I  thought  to 
myself,  "  it  won't  last  long,"  and  it  didn't. 
As  soon  as  I  saw  Willie  Dickinson  come  in 
with  his  old  Iron  Gray,  I  knew  black  Tom 
could  not  keep  quiet,  for  Iron  Gray  and  he 
always  fought  "like  cats  and  dogs."  In  about 
five  minutes  Tom  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
just  as  Miss  Esther  was  kissing  Bessie  White, 
who  had  her  tame  Maltese  kitten  tucked 
under  her  arm  like  a  hat,  Tom  jumped  right 
over  Miss  Esther's  shoulder,  and  came  down 
headforemost  between  Willie  and  Bessie,  and 
stuck  his  claw  into  Iron  Gray's  ear.  Willie 
sprang  to  catch  up  Iron  Gray,  and  trod  on 
Midge,  who  began  to  mew,  and  for  a  minute 
it  looked  as  if  we  should  have  a  terrible 
time.  But  Miss  Esther  snatched  Tom  up, 


A  CUEISTMAS-TEEE  FOE  CATS.          29 

and  gave  him  a  box  on  the  ears,  and  put 
him  back  into  his  chair,  where  he  sat  look 
ing  just  as  guilty  and  ashamed  as  a  whipped 
child ;  and  Willie  said  he  would  hold  Iron 
Gray  in  his  lap,  so  all  was  soon  quiet.  As 
for  the  rest  of  the  cats,  they  were  as  still  as 
mice ;  two  or  three  of  them  had  crept  quite 
out  of  sight  under  the  great  hair-cloth  sofa. 

By  quarter-past  six  the  company  had  all 
arrived  :  twelve  girls,  eight  boys,  and  twenty 
cats.  The  room  was  large,  but  it  seemed 
crowded ;  and  it  was  quite  troublesome  to 
get  about  without  stepping  on  a  cat,  espec 
ially  as  everybody  was  laughing  so  that  they 
could  hardly  walk  straight. 

I  soon  found  out  that  the  only  way  to  feel 
easy  about  Midge  was  to  hold  her  in  my 
arms;  but  I  must  say  that  she  behaved 
as  well  as  any  cat  there,  excepting  Lucy 
Turner's  cat  Box,  which  was  almost  as 
handsome  as  Miss  Jane's  yellow,  and  had 


30  BITS  OF  TALK. 

been  trained  to  sit  on  Lucy's  shoulder.  That 
was  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  room ;  for 
Lucy  Turner  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  town, 
and  Box's  ruff  was  made  of  satin  paper,  of 
a  brilliant  green  color,  which  looked  beauti 
ful  against  her  own  yellow  fur,  and  Lucy's 
yellow  curls. 

At  half-past  six  the  doors  were  thrown 
open  into  the  little  library,  and  there  stood 
the  Tree.  It  was  a  thick  fir-tree,  and  it  had 
twenty  splendid  Chinese  lanterns  on  it,  all 
in  a  blaze  of  light.  Then  there  were  twenty- 
four  phials  of  cream,  tied  on  by  bright  red 
ribbons ;  twenty -four  worsted  balls,  scarlet 
and  white  and  yellow ;  and  as  many  as  two 
hundred  gay-colored  bonbon  papers,  with 
fringe  at  the  ends. 

We  all  took  up  our  cats  in  our  arms,  and 
marched  into  the  room,  and  stood  around 
the  tree.  Then  the  cats'  high-chairs  were 
brought  in,  and  placed  two  on  the  right,  and 


A  CHEISTMAS-TBEE  FOX  CATS.          31 

two  on  the  left,  of  the  tree ;  and  Tom,  and 
Spitfire,  and  Spunk,  and  Yellow,  were  put 
into  them. 

I  never  would  have  believed  that  twenty 
four  cats  could  be  so  still ;  they  all  looked 
as  grave  as  if  they  were  watching  for  rats. 

Miss  Esther  rang  a  bell,  and  the  maid 
brought  in  twenty-four  small  tin  pans  on  a 
waiter ;  then  Miss  Jane  told  us  each  to  take 
a  phial  of  cream  off  the  tree  and  empty  it 
into  a  pan  for  our  cat.  This  took  a  long 
time,  for  some  of  the  phials  hung  quite  high, 
and  none  of  us  dared  to  put  our  cat  down 
for  a  minute.  Such  a  tapping  and  spattering 
as  they  made  drinking  up  the  cream  !  It 
sounded  like  rain  on  window-blinds. 

After  this,  Miss  Esther  distributed  the 
bonbon  papers  by  handfuls,  and  told  us  to 
"  let  the  dear  cats  eat  all  they  could."  Some 
of  the  papers  had  nice  bits  of  roast  veal  in 
them  ;  some  had  toasted  cheese,  and  some 


32  SITS  OF  TALK. 

had  chicken-wings.  We  did  not  get  on  very 
well  with  this  part  of  the  feeding.  We 
tried  to  keep  the  cats  in  our  laps,  and  feed 
them  out  of  our  fingers ;  but  they  were 
more  accustomed  to  eating  on  the  floor,  or 
on  the  ground,  and  they  would  snatch  the 
meat  out  of  our  hands,  in  spite  of  all  we 
could  do,  and  jump  down  with  it  in  their 
teeth.  Then  one  cat  would  see  another  with 
a  bit  of  meat  which  looked  nicer  than  her 
own,  and  she  would  drop  hers,  and  fly  to 
quarrelling  and  snatching  after  the  other. 
They  all  wanted  chicken-wings ;  after  once 
tasting  of  those,  they  despised  the  roast 
veal,  and  even  the  cheese,  and  as  there 
were  only  a  few  chicken-wings,  it  made 
trouble.  Before  we  got  through  with  this, 
we  were  rather  tired ;  and  the  cats,  too,  had 
more  than  they  ought  to  eat,  and  began  to 
get  fretful,  just  like  children  who  have  been 
etulTcd  ;  there  must  have  been  thirty  or  forty 


A  CHRISTMAS -TREE  FOE  CATS.          33 

of  the  bonbon  papers  left  on  the  tree ;  l>ut 
Miss  Esther  said  they  would  do  for  the  cats' 
breakfasts  the  next  day,  so  they  would  not  be 
wasted.  It  seemed  ungrateful,  after  the  old 
ladies  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  amuse  us, 
to  find  any  fault  with  the  party ;  but  we  did 
begin  to  feel  hungry,  and  to  think  that  the 
cats  need  not  have  had  everything.  At  last 
I  saw  Willie  Dickinson  turn  his  back  to 
the  people,  and  slyly  bite  a  mouthful  off  a 
chicken-wing  before  he  gave  it  to  Iron  Gray. 
This  made  me  hungrier  than  ever ;  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  that  I,  too,  watched  my 
chance,  and  popped  a  bit  of  veal  into  my 
mouth  when  I  thought  nobody  was  looking. 
Fancy  my  mortification  when  I  heard  Miss 
Esther's  kind  voice  behind  me,  saying,  — "I 
am  afraid  our  little  friends  are  getting  hun 
gry.  Their  turn  will  come  by  and  by." 
Oh,  I  wished  the  floor  would  open  and  swal 
low  me  up.  I  have  never  been  so  ashamed 


34  BITS  OF  TALK. 

since,  and  I  never  can  be,  if  I  live  a  hundred 
years. 

All  this  time,  Tom,  and  Spitfire,  and 
Spunk,  and  Yellow  sat  up  in  their  high- 
chairs  as  grand  as  so  many  kings  on  thrones, 
and  had  two  little  tables  before  them,  off 
which  they  ate.  Really  they  hardly  looked 
like  cats,  they  were  so  dignified  and  so 
large.  If  they  had  only  known  it,  though, 
it  was  not  very  civil  of  them  to  be  sitting 
up  in  that  way,  at  their  own  party,  the  only 
ones  who  had  either  a  chair  or  a  table,  but 
it  was  not  their  fault. 

At  last  Miss  Esther  said,  — "  Now  we  will 
give  the  cats  a  game  of  ball  to  wind  up 
with,"  and  she  took  a  red  worsted  ball  from 
the  tree,  and  threw  it  out  into  the  parlor. 
Midge  sprang  after  it  like  lightning;  then 
we  all  took  balls  and  threw  them  out,  and 
let  all  the  cats  run  after  them,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  there  was  a  fine  jumble  and  turnblo 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOE  CATS.          35 

of  cats  and  balls  on  the  floor.  But  as  soon 
as  the  cats  found  out  that  the  balls  were  not 
something  more  to  eat,  all  except  the  very 
young  ones  walked  off  and  sat  down,  just 
like  grown-up  men  and  women,  round  the 
sides  of  the  room.  This  was  the  funniest 
sight  of  all,  for  they  all  began  to  wash  their 
faces  and  their  paws  ;  and  to  see  twenty  cats 
at  once  doing  this  is  droller  than  can  bo 
imagined.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  lay 
the  bright  balls,  and  Midge  and  three  other 
kittens  were  rolling  over  and  over  among 
them.  We  all  laughed  till  we  were  so  tired 
we  could  not  speak,  and  most  of  us  had 
tears  rolling  down  our  cheeks. 

Pretty  soon  the  door-bell  rang ;  the  maid 
came  into  the  parlor  and  said, — 

"  Judge  Dickinson's  man  has  come  after 
Willie's  cat." 

Then  we  all  laughed  harder  than  ever,  and 
Willie  called  out,  — 


36  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  That  is  no  way  to  speak.  You  should 
say,  '  Mr.  Irou  Gray's  carriage  has  come.' ': 

Next  carne  our  Bridget  after  Midge,  and  I 
must  say  I  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  her.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  cats  were  all  gone ;  then  we 
looked  at  each  other  and  wondered  what  we 
should  do  next.  Tom  and  Spunk  had  got 
down  from  their  chairs  and  gone  to  sleep 
before  the  fire;  and  Yellow  and  Spitfire 
were  playing  with  the  bits  of  paper  which 
were  scattered  on  the  floor.  What  with  the 
bonbon  papers,  and  the  torn  ruffs,  it  looked 
like  a  paper-mill.  We  were  just  proposing 
a  game  of  Blind  Man's  Buff,  when  the  maid 
opened  the  dining-room  door,  and  oh,  how 
we  jumped  and  screamed  when  we  saw  the 
fine  supper-table  which  was  set  out  for  us  ! 
It  was  a  nice  old-fashioned  sit-down  supper, 
such  as  nobody  gives  nowadays ;  and  the 
things  to  eat  were  all  wholesome  and  plain, 
f?cr  that  nobody  could  be  made  sick  by  eating 


A  CHRISTMAS-TREE  FOR  CATS.          37 

all  they  chose.  Miss  Esther  and  Miss  Jane 
walked  around  the  tables  all  the  time,  and 
slipped  apples  and  oranges  into  our  pockets 
for  us  to  carry  home,  and  kept  begging  us 
to  eat  more  chicken  and  bread  and  butter. 
When  we  went  away,  we  each  had  one  of 
the  splendid  Chinese  lanterns  given  to  us ; 
and  there  was  not  a  single  little  girl  there, 
who  did  not  think  for  years  and  years  after 
ward  that  it  would  be  the  grandest  thing  in 
this  world  to  be  an  old  maid  like  Miss  Esther 
Ferry,  and  live  in  a  yellow  cottage,  with  one 
sister  and  four  big  cats. 


38  SITS  OF  TALK. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

/TAHE  tales  of  good  St.  Nicholas 
Are  known  in  every  clime ; 
Told  in  painting,  and  in  statues, 

And  in  the  poet's  rhyme. 
For  centuries  they've  worshipped  him, 

In  churches  east  and  west ; 
Of  all  the  saints  we  read  about 

He  is  beloved  the  best. 
Because  he  was  the  saint  of  all 

The  wretched  and  the  poor, 
And  never  sent  a  little  child 

Uusuccored  from  his  door. 
In  England's  isle,  alone,  to-day, 

Four  hundred  churches  stand 
Which  bear  his  name,  and  keep  it  well 

Eemembered  through  the  land. 
And  all  the  little  children 

In  England  know  full  well 
Tin's  tale  of  good  St.  Nicholas, 

Which  I  am  now  to  tell. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS.         39 

The  sweetest  tale,  I  think,  of  all 

The  tales  they  tell  of  him; 
I  never  read  it  but  my  eyes 

"With  tears  begin  to  swim. 

There  was  a  heathen  king  who  roved 

About  with  cruel  bands, 
And  waged  a  fierce  and  wicked  war 

On  all  the  Christian  lands. 
And  once  he  took  as  captive 

A  little  fair-haired  boy, 
A  Christian  merchant's  only  son, 

His  mother's  pride  and  joy. 
He  decked  him  in  apparel  gay, 

And  said,  "  You're  just  the  age 
To  serve  behind  my  chair  at  meat, 

A  dainty  Christian  page." 
Oh,  with  a  sore  and  aching  heart 

The  lonely  captive  child 
Roamed  through  the  palace,  big  and  grand, 

And  wept  and  never  smiled. 
And  all  the  heathen  jeered  at  him, 

And  called  him  Christian  dog, 
And  when  the  king  was  angry 

He  kicked  him  like  a  log, 


40  SITS  OF  TALK. 

And  spat  upon  his  face,  and  said: 
"  Now  by  my  beard,  thy  gods 

Are  poor  to  leave  their  worshippers 
At  such  unequal  odds." 

One  day,  just  as  the  cruel  king 

Had  sat  him  down  to  dine, 
And  in  his  jewelled  cup  of  gold 

The  page  was  pouring  wine, 
The  little  fellow's  heart  ran  o'er 

In  tears  he  could  not  stay, 
For  he  remembered  suddenly, 

It  was  the  very  day 
On  which  the  yearly  feast  was  kept 

Of  good  St  Nicholas, 
And  at  his  home  that  very  hour 

Were  dancing  on  the  grass, 
With  music,  and  with  feasting,  all 

The  children  of  the  town. 
The  king  looked  up,  and  saw  his  tears; 

His  face  began  to  frown : 
"  How  now,  thou  dog !  thy  snivelling  tears 

Are  running  in  my  cup ; 
'Twas  not  with  these,  but  with  good  wine, 

I  bade  thee  fill  it  up. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS.         41 

Why  weeps  the  hound ?  "    The  child  replied : 

"  I  weep,  because  to-day, 
In  name  of  good  St.  Nicholas, 

All  Christian  children  play; 
And  all  my  kindred  gather  home, 

From  greatest  unto  least, 
And  keep  to  good  St.  Nicholas 

A  merry  banquet  feast." 
The  heathen  king  laughed  scornfully: 

"  If  he  be  saint  indeed, 
Thy  famous  great  St.  Nicholas, 

"Why  does  he  not  take  heed 
To  thee  to-day,  and  bear  thee  back 

To  thy  own  native  land? 
Ha !  well  I  wot,  he  cannot  take 

One  slave  from  out  my  hand  I " 

Scarce  left  the  boastful  words  his  tongue 

When,  with  astonished  eyes, 
The  cruel  king  a  giant  form 

Saw  swooping  from  the  skies. 
A  whirlwind  shook  the  palace  walls, 

The  doors  flew  open  wide, 
And  lo  I  the  good  St.  Nicholas 

Came  in  with  mighty  stride. 


42  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Right  past  the  guards,  as  they  were  not, 

Close  to  the  king's  gold  chair, 
With  striding  steps  the  good  Saint  came, 

And  seizing  by  his  hair 
The  frightened  little  page,  he  bore 

Him,  in  a  twinkling,  high 
Above  the  palace  topmost  roof, 

And  vanished  in  the  sky. 

Now  at  that  very  hour  was  spread 

A  banquet  rich  and  dear, 
"Within  the  little  page's  home, 

To  which,  from  far  and  near, 
The  page's  mourning  parents  called 

All  poor  to  come  and  pray 
"With  them,  to  good  St.  Nicholas, 

Upon  his  sacred  day. 
Thinking,  perhaps,  that  he  would  heal 

Their  anguish  and  their  pain, 
And  at  poor  people's  prayers  might  give 

Their  child  to  them  again. 

Now  what  a  sight  was  there  to  see, 
"When  flying  through  the  air, 

The  Saint  came  carrying  the  boy, 
Still  by  his  curly  hair  I 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS.        43 

And  set  him  on  his  mother's  knee, 

Too  frightened  yet  to  stand, 
And  holding  still  the  king's  gold  cup 

Fast  in  his  little  hand. 
And  what  glad  sounds  were  these  to  hear, 

What  sobs  and  joyful  cries, 
And  calls  for  good  St.  Nicholas, 

To  come  back  from  the  skies  I 
But  swift  he  soared,  and  only  smiled, 

And  vanished  in  the  blue ; 
Most  likely  he  was  hurrying 

Some  other  good  to  do. 
But  I  wonder  if  he  did  not  stop 

To  take  a  passing  look 
Where  still  the  cruel  heathen  king 

In  terror  crouched  and  shook ; 
While  from  the  palace  all  Ms  guarda 

In  coward  haste  had  fled, 
And  told  the  people,  in  his  chair 

The  king  was  sitting  dead. 

Hurrah  for  good  St.  Nicholas  I 

The  friend  of  all  the  poor, 
Who  never  sent  a  little  child 

Unsuccored  from  his  door. 


44  SITS  OF  TALK. 

We  do  not  pray  to  saints  to-day, 

But  still  we  hold  them  dear, 
And  the  stories  of  their  holy  lives 

Are  stories  good  to  hear. 
They  are  a  sort  of  parable, 

And  if  we  ponder  well, 
"We  shall  not  find  it  hard  to  read 

The  lesson  which  they  tell. 
"We  do  not  pray  to  saints  to-day, 

Yet  who  knows  but  they  hear 
Our  mention  of  them,  and  are  glad 

"We  hold  their  memory  dear? 
Hurrah  for  good  St.  Nicholas, 

The  friend  of  all  the  poor, 
Who  never  sent  a  little  child 

Unsuccored  from  his  door  I 


MY  ANT'S  Cow. 


MY  ANTS  COW.  45 


MY  ANT'S  COW. 

"TV  yfY  Ant  lives  in  the  country  and  keeps 
a  cow.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that,  al 
though  I  have  always  known  she  was  a  most 
interesting  person,  I  never  went  to  see  her 
until  last  week.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not 
have  gone  then,  if  I  had  not  found  an  ac 
count  of  her,  and  her  house,  and  her  cow, 
in  a  book  which  I  was  reading. 

"Dear  me,"  said  I,  "and  there  she  has 
been  living  so  near  me  all  this  time,  and  I 
never  have  been  to  call  on  her."  To  tell 
the  truth,  it  was  much  worse  than  that ;  I 
had  often  met  her  in  the  street,  and  had 
taken  such  a  dislike  to  her  looks  that  I 
always  brushed  by  as  quickly  as  possible 
without  speaking  to  her.  But  I  knew  that 
she  had  never  taken  any  notice  of  me,  so  I 


46  BITS  OF  TALK. 

hoped  she  would  not  recognize  me,  if  I  went 
to  call  on  her,  and  behaved  very  politely, 
now  that  I  had  found  out  how  famous  she 
had  become.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  find 
ing  her  house,  though  it  is  quite  large.  She 
belongs  to  a  very  peculiar  family ;  they 
prefer  to  live  in  the  dark ;  so  they  have  no 
windows  in  their  houses,  only  doors ;  and 
the  doors  are  nothing  but  holes  in  the  roof. 
The  houses  are  built  in  shape  of  a  mound, 
and  not  more  than  ten  inches  high  ;  they  are 
built  out  of  old  bits  of  wood,  dead  leaves, 
straw,  old  bones  ;  in  short,  every  sort  of  old 
thing  that  they  find  they  stick  in  the  walls 
of  their  houses.  Their  best  rooms  are  all 
down  cellar  ;  and  dark  enough  they  must  be 
on  a  rainy  day,  when  the  doors  are  always 
kept  shut  tight. 

But  I  ought  to  have  told  you  about  my 
Ant  herself  before  I  told  you  about  her 
house ;  when  you  hear  what  an  odd  person 


MY  ANT'S  COW.  47 

she  is,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  know  in 
what  an  outlandish  kind  of  house  she  lives. 
To  begin  with,  I  must  tell  you  that  she 
belongs  to  a  most  aristocratic  family,  and 
never  does  any  work.  You'd  never  suppose 
so,  to  see  her.  I  really  think  she  is  the 
queerest-looking  creature  I  ever  met.  In 
the  first  place,  her  skin  is  of  a  dark  brown 
color,  darker  than  an  Indian's,  and  she  has 
six  legs.  Of  course  she  can  walk  three 
times  as  fast  as  if  she  had  only  two,  —  but  I 
would  rather  go  slower  and  be  more  like 
other  people.  She  has  frightful  jaws,  with 
which  she  does  all  sorts  of  things  besides 
eatijg.  She  uses  them  for  tweezers,  pick 
axes,  scissors,  knife  and  fork,  and  in  case 
of  a  battle,  for  swords.  Then  she  has  grow 
ing  out  of  the  front  part  of  her  head  two 
long  slender  horns,  which  she  keeps  moving 
about  continually  in  all  directions,  and  with 
which  she  touches  everything  she  wishes  to 


48  BITS  OF  TALK. 

understand.  The  first  thing  she  does,  when 
she  meets  you,  is  to  bend  both  these  horns 
straight  towards  you,  and  feel  of  you  all 
over.  It  is  quite  disagreeable, — almost  ar, 
bad  as  shaking  hands  with  strangers. 

My  Ant's  name  is  Formica  Rufa.  If  1 
knew  her  better  1  should  call  her  Ant  Ru, 
for  short.  But  I  do  not  expect  ever  to  know 
her  very  well ;  she  evidently  does  not  like 
to  be  intimate  with  anybody  but  her  own 
family ;  and  I  don't  so  much  wonder,  for  I 
never  was  in  any  house  so  overrun  with 
people  as  hers  is.  I  wondered  how  they 
knew  themselves  apart.  When  I  went  to 
see  her  last  week  I  found  her  just  going  out, 
and  I  thought  perhaps  that  was  one  reason 
she  didn't  take  any  more  notice  of  me. 

"How  do  you  do,  Ant?"  said  I.  "I  am 
spending  the  summer  near  by,  and  thought 
I  Avould  like  to  become  acquainted  with  you. 


MY  ANTS  COW.  49 

I  hear  you  ha\e  a  very  curious  cow,  and  I 
have  a  great  desire  to  see  it." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  she,  and  snapped  her  horns 
up  and  down,  as  she  always  does  when  she 
is  displeased,  I  find. 

Then  I  realized  that  it  was  a  mistake  to 
mention  in  the  first  place  that  I  had  come  to 
see  the  cow.  But  it  was  too  late  to  take  it 
back.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  awkward 
truths  that  sometimes  slip  out  in  spite  of  us  ; 
there  is  no  putting  them  out  of  sight  again. 

However,  I  went  on,  trying  to  conciliate 
her  as  well  as  I  could,  in  my  entire  ignorance 
of  the  rules  of  behavior  in  the  society  to 
which  she  belonged. 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  give  you  any  trouble  to 
show  her  to  me.  You  rnusf  be  very  proud 
of  having  such  a  fine  cow.  Perhaps  you 
are  on  the  way  to  milking  now,  and  if  so  I 
should  be  most  happy  to  go  with  you." 

*  Humph  ! "  said  my  Ant  again.  At  least  I 
4 


50  BITS  OF  TALK. 

think  that  was  what  she  said.  It  looked 
like  it.  I  can't  say  that  I  heard  any  distinct 
Articulate  sound  ;  and  I  was  too  embarrassed 
to  listen  very  attentively,  for  I  did  begin  to 
feel  that  she  might  resent  my  coming  out  of 
mere  curiosity  to  see  her  cow,  when  I  had 
lived  to  be  an  old  woman  without  ever  go;^g 
near  her. 

But  she  turned  short  on  Iter  heels  (I 
suppose  she  has  heels),  and  plunged  int- 
the  woods  at  the  right,  stopping  and  looking 
back  at  me  as  if  she  expected  me  to  follow. 
So  I  stepped  along  after  her  as  fast  as  I 
cculd,  and  said,  "Thank  you  ;  I  suppose  this 
is  the  way  to  the  pasture." 

My  Ant  said  nothing,   but  went  ahead 
snapping  her  horns  furiously. 

"Oh,  well,"  thought  I  to  myself,  "your 
an  uncivil  Ant  anyhow,  if  I  have  come  simply 
out   of  curiosity.      You   might   be   a   little 
more  polite  in  your  own  house,  or  at  least 


MY  ANTS  COW.  51 

on  your  own  grounds,  which  is  the  same 
thing.  I  sha'n't  speak  to  you  again,"  and 
that's  about  all  the  conversation  I  have  ever 
had  with  my  Ant.  But  she  took  me  to  the 
pasture,  and  I  saw  her  cow. 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  where  the 
pasture  was,  and  what  the  cow  was ;  but  if 
you  don't  believe  me,  you  can  look  in  books 
written  about  such  things,  and  they  will 
convince  you  that  every  word  I  say  is  true. 
The  pasture  was  the  stalk  of  a  green  brier; 
and  there  stood  not  only  my  Ant's  cow, 
but  as  many  as  live  hundred  others,  all 
feeding  away  upon  it.  You  have  seen 
millions  of  them  in  your  lives ;  I  dare  say 
have  killed  them  by  teaspoonfuls ;  for  you 
must  know  that  they  were  nothing  but  little 
green  lice,  such  as  sometimes  kill  our  rose 
bushes,  and  we  try  in  every  possible  way  to 
get  rid  of.  Who  would  ever  suppose  there 
could  be  a  race  of  creatures  for  whom  these 


52  SITS  OF  TALK. 

little  green  plant-lice  could  serve  as  cows ! 
But  I  assure  you  it  is  true,  find  if  you  live 
in  the  country  you  can  see  it  for  yourself; 
but  you  will  have  to  look  through  a  magnify- 
ing-glass  to  see  tKem  milked.  Think  of 
looking  through  a  maguifying-glass  at  any 
body's  cow  I  I  looked  at  my  Ant's  for  an 
hour,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  hardly  winked, 
I  was  so  absorbed  in  the  curious  sight. 

Its  skin  was  smooth  as  satin  and  of  a 
most  beautiful  light  green  color.  It  had  six 
legs,  and  little  hooks  at  the  end,  instead  of 
hoofs ;  the  oddest  thing  of  all  was  that  the 
horns  were  not  on  its  head,  but  at  the  other 
end  of  its  body,  where  the  tail  would  have 
been,  if  it  had  had  a  tail  like  any  other  cow ; 
the  horns  are  hollow  tubes,  and  it  is  out  of 
them  that  the  milk  comes,  a  drop  at  a  time. 
The  milk  is  meant  for  the  little  plant-lice  to 
suck  before  they  are  old  enough  to  hook 
their  six  legs  on  to  stalks  and  leaves,  and 


MY  ANT'S  COW.  53 

feed  on  sap.  But  I  think  that  in  any  place 
where  there  are  many  of  my  Ant's  race,  the 
little  plant-lice  must  fare  as  badly  as  poor 
little  calves  do  when  men  shut  them  up 
away  from  their  mothers ;  for  the  Ants  are 
so  fond  of  this  milk  that  sometimes  they 
carry  off  whole  herds  of  the  plant-lice  and 
shut  them  up  in  chambers  in  their  houses, 
and  feed  them  as  we  do  cows  in  barns,  and 
go  and  milk  them  whenever  they  please. 

"Oh,  dear  Ant,"  said  I  to  my  Ant,  "do 
pray  milk  your  cow  !  I  have  such  a  desire 
to  see  how  you  do  it." 

She  did  not  appear  to  understand  me, 
and  I  dare  say  if  she  had  she  would  not  have 
clone  it  any  sooner.  But  presently  I  saw 
her  go  up  behind  her  cow,  and  begin  to  tap 
her  gently  on  her  back,  just  at  the  place 
where  the  horns  grew  out.  The  cow  did 
not  look  round  nor  stop  eating,  but  in  a 
moment  out  came  a  tiny  drop  of  liquid  from 


54  SITS  OF  TALK. 

the  tip  of  each  tube ;  my  Ant  picked  it  up 
with  her  wonderful  horns  and  whisked  it 
into  her  mouth  as  quick  as  you  would  a 
sugar-plum.  Then  she  went  on  to  the  next 
cow  and  milked  that  in  the  same  manner, 
and  then  a  third  one ;  she  took  only  two 
drops  from  each  one.  Perhaps  that  is  all 
that  this  kind  of  cow  can  give  at  a  time. 
However,  I  think  that  for  my  Ant  to  take 
that  one  drop  at  a  mouthful  was  about  the 
same  in  proportion  to  her  size  that  it  would 
be  for  us  to  take  a  gallon  at  a  swallow.  So 
after  all,  by  milking  her  own  cow  and  two  of 
her  neighbors',  she  made  quite  a  respectable 
meal.  There  were  several  of  her  friends 
there  at  the  same  time  doing  their  milking ; 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  easy  it 
would  be  for  the  great  herd  of  cows  to  kill 
my  Ant  and  all  her  race,  if  they  chose. 
But  it  is  thought  by  wise  people  who  have 
studied  these  wonderful  things  that  the  cows 


MY  ANTS  COW.  55 

are  fond  of  being  milked  in  this  way,  and 
would  be  sorry  to  be  left  alone  by  them 
selves. 

After  my  Ant  had  finished  her  supper,  she 
stood  still  watching  the  co\vs  for  some  time. 
I  thought  perhaps  she  would  be  in  a  better 
humor  after  having  had  so  much  to  eat,  and 
might  possibly  feel  like  talking  with  me. 
But  I  was  determined  not  to  speak  first. 
So  I  sat  still  and  tried  to  look  as  if  I  did 
not  care  whether  she  spoke  or  not,  for  I 
have  observed  that  that  is  the  surest  way  to 
make  sullen  and  contrary  people  talk.  But 
she  never  once  opened  her  mouth,  though  I 
think  I  sat  there  a  good  hour  and  a  half. 
At  last  it  began  to  grow  dark,  and  as  I  had 
quite  a  long  walk  to  take,  I  knew  I  must 
go,  or  I  should  not  get  home  in  time  for  my 
own  supper  of  milk. 

,  "Good-night,  Ant,"  said  I.     "I  have  had 
a  charming  visit.     I  am  very  much  obliged 


56  BITS  OF  TALK. 

to  you  indeed  for  showing  me  your  cow.  I 
think  she  is  the  most  wonderful  creature  I  ever 
saw.  I  should  be  very  happy  to  see  you  at 
my  house." 

"  Humph  1 "  said  my  Ant. 


8T.  MABTIXTS  CLOAK.  57 


ST.  MARTIN'S  CLOAK. 

OT.  MARTIN  was  a  soldier 

Of  Constantino  the  Great ; 
While  yet  he  was  a  stripling 

He  bore  full  armor's  weight ; 
He  fought  right  well  and  valiantly ; 

No  worse  because  he  prayed ; 
His  comrades  sometime  scoffed  at  him, 

When  the  cross's  sign  he  made. 
But  they  loved  him  in  their  hearts, 

And  revered  his  saintly  life, 
And  felt  safer  with  him  close  to  them, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  strife. 

They  tell  a  many  tales  of  him ; 

His  generosity ; 
His  love  for  all  the  poor ;  his  deeds 

Of  gracious  charity ; 
Above  them  all,  this  one  is  sweet 

And  wonderful  to  read, 
And  holds  a  tender  lesson 

For  us  to  learn  and  heed. 


$8  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Oh  if  we  lived  to-day,  as  lived 
Those  blessed  ancient  saints, 

This  world  of  ours  less  full  would  be 
Of  weeping  and  complaints. 

One  dreadful  winter,  when  the  cold 

Was  so  bitter  that  it  killed 
Men  on  the  streets,  and,  spite  of  fires, 

In  houses  they  were  chilled, 
St.  Martin  went  one  morning 

To  pass  the  city's  gate, 
And  there  he  saw  a  ragged  man, 

Whose  pitiable  state 
So  moved  Ms  heart,  that  in  a  trice 

He  drew  his  good  broadsword, 
And  cut  his  warm  fur  cloak  in  two 

Without  a  single  word, 
And  threw  the  beggar-man  one-half; 

Then  in  the  other,  clad 
But  meagrely,  he  rode  all  day 

Half  frozen,  but  most  glad. 

At  night,  St.  Martin  dreamed  a  dream, 
Such  dreams  as  angels  bring ; 

They  led  him  in  his  dream  to  Heaven, 
To  see  a  wondrous  thing. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  CLOAK.  59 

He  saw  the  Good  Lord  walking 

Along  the  golden  street, 
"With  angels  crowding  round  him, 

On  silver  pinions  fleet ; 
And  lo,  upon  his  shoulders 

A  wrap  of  fur  he  bore, 
The  self-same  wrap  of  fur  which  matched 

The  half  St.  Martin  wore! 

And  turning  to  the  angels, 

"With  smile,  the  Good  Lord  said, 
"  Now  do  ye  know,  my  angels, 

Who  thus  hath  me  array 'd? 
My  servant  Martin  hath  done  this, 

Though  he  is  unbaptized, 
And  dreameth  not  his  charity 

By  me  is  known  and  prized." 

The  next  day,  while  the  vision 

Glowed  within  him  like  a  flame, 
Young  Martin  sought  a  holy  priest, 

"Who  baptized  him  in  God's  name. 
And  after  that,  for  thirty  years 

He  fought  the  Emperor's  fights 
As  one  whose  eye  and  hand  are  nerved 

By  Heaven's  sounds  and  sights. 


60  BITS  OF  TALK. 


RUNNA    RIG. 


THE  NAUGHTY  FAIRY  WHO  PLAYED   WITH  FIRE. 


/^~\NE  cold  night  in  March,  when  the  wind 
blew  wildly  and  shook  the  windows,  I 
sat  alone  in  a  small  garret-room,  which  was 
lit  only  by  one  candle.  The  candle  had 
burned  nearly  out  ;  not  more  than  two  inches 
of  it  was  left,  and  that  did  not  stand  very 
firmly  in  the  candlestick.  The  room  was 
cold  and  seemed  quite  dark.  I  was  thinking 
of  some  one  whom  I  loved  so  much,  that 
while  I  thought  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 
It  is  very  strange,  but  when  our  eyes  are 
full  of  tears  of  love,  we  can  see  more  clearly 
than  at  any  other  time.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  if  we  always  looked  through  such  tears 


KUNNA  EIG.  6 1 

we  could  see  into  Heaven,  but  this  night  I 
only  got  a  peep  into  Fairy  Land. 

As  I  looked  steadily  at  the  flame  of  the 
caudle,  I  suddenly  observed,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  how  tall  and  stiff  the  round 
black  wick  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  it. 
The  flame  was  nearly  an  inch  high,  shaped 
like  an  arched  gate,  blue,  and  looked  almost 
solid  at  bottom,  pale  yellow,  and  quite  trans 
parent  at  top ;  the  slender  black  thread  of 
the  burning  wick  came  half-way  to  the  top 
of  the  arch,  and  stood  firm  as  a  little  ebony 
soldier,  while  the  blaze  swayed  about  it.  I 
blew  the  flame  gently,  and  then  harder,  but 
the  small  black  figure  did  not  stir.  As  I 
looked  at  it  more  carefully,  I  saw  that  it  had 
a  head.  The  longer  I  looked,  the  darker 
the  room  grew,  and  at  last  I  lost  sight  of 
the  candlestick,  table,  everything  except  the 
arch  of  fire,  with  a  patient,  erect  little  figure 
in  the  centre  of  it,  looking  directly  at  me 


62  SITS  OF  TALK. 

out  of  two  bright  red  eyes.  I  thought 
it  was  very  odd  that  I  had  never  noticed 
before  how  much  the  wicks  of  candles  looked 
like  tiny  black  boys.  "While  I  was  won 
dering  if  they  always  looked  so,  the  figure 
tottered,  and  I  took  up  the  snuffers  to  snuff 
the  candle. 

Think  how  I  jumped,  when  out  of  the 
little  bit  of  a  black  head  came  a  little  bit  of 
a  voice,  crying: 

"Oh  !  don't  cut  me  off!  don't  cut  me  off ! " 

Of  course  I  knew  at  once  that  it  must  be 
a  fairy,  but  I  thought  to  myself,  I  won't  be 
afraid  while  he  speaks  English ;  so  I  said  : 

"No,  indeed,  you  funny  little  manikin,  I 
won't  cut  you  off;  however,  if  I  don't,  you'll 
tumble  down  in  a  minute  into  this  boiling 
fat,  and  that  will  be  worse  than  to  be 
jammed  in  the  hinges  of  the  snuffers.  But 
how  did  you  ever  get  into  the  candlewick, 


RUNNA  EIG.  63 

and  don't  you  very  much  dislike  being 
there?" 

"Oh,  dear!  I  think  I  do,"  said  he;  "but 
unless  }7ou  can  contrive  to  prop  me  up,  I 
shall  not  have  time  to  tell  you  anything,  and 
I  would  like  to  tell  you  who  I  am  and  how  I 
came  here." 

I  propped  the  wick  up  as  well  as  I  could 
with  the  snuffers  and  two  sticks,  so  that 
I  thought  it  would  last  long  enough  for 
such  a  mite  of  a  fairy  to  tell  all  he  knew, 
and  then  I  begged  him  to  use  short  words, 
and  skip  all  about  the  time  when  he  was  a 
baby,  and  perhaps  he  could  get  through. 
His  voice  was  a  droll  little  voice,  finer  than 
the  finest  squeak  you  ever  heard  from  a 
kitten.  I  had  to  listen  with  all  my  might 
to  understand  what  he  said,  and  in  spite 
of  all  my  pains,  I  now  and  then  lost  a 
word.  It  was  queer  that  such  a  little  thread 
of  a  voice  could  sound  like  crying,  but  it 


64  SITS  OF  TALK. 

really  did,  and  the  melting  wax  of  the 
candle  bubbled  round  his  feet,  too,  which 
made  it  all  the  harder  to  hear  him.  I  shall 
tell  his  story  to  you  in  his  own  words, 
for  they  are  much  better  than  mine  would 
be:  — 

The  Fairy's  Story. 

"My  name  is  Eunna  Rig,  and  that  in  fairy 
language  means  mischief.  I  have  always 
thought  that  if  I  had  only  been  called  by 
some  other  name,  I  should  never  have  got 
into  any  trouble,  for  my  brother  Taik  Tyme 
and  my  sister  Nevva  Dew  Raung  have 
always  lived  peaceably  and  in  comfort,  but 
I  have  never  done  anything  but  mischief 
since  I  was  born,  and  I  have  had  more 
punishments  than  I  could  tell  you.  This 
one  I  am  bearing  now,  however,  is  so  much 
worse  than  any  of  the  others,  that  they  all 
look  like  play  to  me  as  I  remember  them. 


BUNNA.RIG.  65 

When  I  tell  you  the  cause  of  this  one, 
you  will  not  think  it  too  severe.  I  my 
self  own  that  it  is  just.  If  I  had  been  in 
the  Queen's  place,  I  would  have  made  it 
harder  still ;  though  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
what  could  be  harder,"  groaned  the  poor 
little  fellow.  "  Do  you  suppose  you  have 
the  slightest  idea  how  hot  it  is  in  here  ?  But 
I  must  make  haste  and  tell  you  what  it  was 
that  I  did. 

"One  clay,  as  my  brother  and  I  were 
taking  a  nap  on  a  burdock-leaf,  we  were 
waked  up  by  a  loud  noise.  We  ran  in  great 
fright  to  the  top  of  the  tallest  stem  of  the 
burdock,  and  there  we  saw  at  a  little  dis 
tance  two  human  children,  with  small  pine- 
sticks  in  their  hands,  tipped  with  something 
bright  yellow,  which  shone  in  the  sun. 
These  sticks  they  struck  with  great  force 
against  a  rock,  and  immediately  there  fol 
lowed  a  tremendous  noise,  and  a  great  fire 


66  SITS  OF  TALK. 

which  lit  up  the  whole  place,  while  the 
blazing  bits  of  yellow  stone  fell  on  all 
sides.  My  brother  was  too  frightened  to 
speak,  but  I  thought  it  the  most  beautiful 
sight  I  had  ever  seen,  and  I  longed  to  have 
a  piece  of  the  yellow  stone  myself,  and  see 
what  I  could  do  with  it.  After  the  children 
went  away,  we  crept  down,  and  found  the 
ground  covered  with  small  sparkling  pieces 
of  the  precious  yellow.  I  begged  Taik 
Tyme  to  help  me  carry  some  of  it  home. 
At  first  he  would  not  have  anything  to  do 
with  it,  but  finally  consented,  more  to  please 
me  than  because  he  cared  for  it  himself. 
It  is  wonderful  to  see  any  being  with  so  little 
curiosity  as  my  brother  has.  We  collected 
a  great  quantity  of  it,  as  much  as  we  could 
pile  on  a  large  plantain-leaf,  which  we  lifted 
carefully  by  the  edges  and  carried  home. 
Just  as  we  reached  the  edge  of  Periwinkle 
Path,  in  which  Tve  lived,  the  weight  of  the 


EUNNA  EIG.  67 

yellow  stone  split  the  leaf,  and  it  all  fell 
through  to  the  ground,  which  gave  us  a, 
great  deal  of  trouble.  At  last  we  got  it 
safety  hid  under  a  bed  of  old  red  poppy- 
leaves,  where  some  strolling  beggars  had 
slept  the  night  before,  and  near  which  we 
knew  that  no  one  would  go.  By  this  time 
my  brother  had  been  made  so  ill  by  the 
smell  of  the  strange  stuff,  that  he  could  not 
eat  any  supper ;  which  was  a  dreadful  pity, 
for  we  had  some  rare  mignonette  honey, 
which  had  been  sent  by  my  uncle,  who  is 
High  Steward  to  the  Queen. 

"  I  could  not  sleep  all  night  for  thinking 
of  my  treasures,  and  planning  how  I  should 
make  my  experiments.  It  was  a  stormy 
night,  the  wind  blew  like  a  hurricane,  and 
rocked  the  whole  garden.  Some  neighbors 
of  ours,  who  had  known  no  better  than  to 
go  to  sleep  in  the  upper  story  of  a  honey 
suckle,  were  blown  out  of  their  beds  just 


68  BITS  OF  TALK. 

before  morning.  I  was  thankful  that  I  had 
thought  to  put  some  large  stones  on  the 
edges  of  the  poppy-leaves  to  hold  them 
down ;  afterward,  I  wished  that  I  had  not 
done  any  such  thing,  and  that  they  had  all 
blown  away,  yellow  stones  and  all,  in  the 
night. 

"I  was  up  before  light,  and  ran  to  the 
poppy-bed.  All  was  safe.  But  now  I  could 
not  think  of  any  way  to  fasten  the  yellow 
stone  to  the  ends  of  sticks,  and  I  did  not 
dare  to  fire  them  off  in  any  other  way. 
In  despair,  I  called  my  bosom  friend  Kare- 
fauaut,  showed  him  my  treasures,  and  told 
him  what  I  had  seen  the  children  do. 

"'Oh!  I  know  all  about  that,'  said  he. 
'  It  is  something  which  comes  on  the  end  of 
what  they  call  matches.  I  have  often  seen 
children  playing  with  them.  It  is  perfectly 
splendid.  How  did  you  get  it?  But,  bah  I 


EUNNA  RIG.  69 

what  an  odor  I    It  must  be  that  human  beings 
have  no  sense  of  smell ! ' 

"Finally,  Karefanaut  proposed  that  we 
should  put  a  piece  of  it  on  a  flat  stone,  and 
then  let  another  stone  fall  on  it  from  a  great 
height;  that,  he  thought,  would  make  it 
explode.  It  was  not  easy  to  do  this,  but  it 
worked  capitally.  We  lugged  heavy  stones, 
almost  as  large  as  ourselves,  up  to  the  tops 
of  bushes,  and  threw  them  down  on  the 
piece  of  yellow  stone  which  we  had  arranged 
below.  'Bang!'  'Pop!'  off  it  went,  and 
sometimes  a  veiy  little  blaze  and  smoke 
came  with  it.  But  the  best  part  of  all  was 
to  see  everybody  run.  Everybody  thought 
it  came  from  the  sky,  and  everybody  began 
to  think  that  the  world  must  be  coming  to 
an  end.  For  weeks,  Karefanaut  and  I  spent 
all  our  time  in  this  way.  Nobody  suspected 
us ;  in  fact,  the  noises  and  smells  were  so 
very  queer  that  nobody  could  help  believing 


70  BITS  OF  TALK. 

that  something  dreadful  must  be  going  on  in 
the  world,  of  which  we  knew  nothing.  The 
two  wisest  men  of  the  court,  Digg  Phoreva 
and  Peer  Abaut,  wrote  treatises  to  prove 
that  the  earth  was  getting  too  close  to  the 
sun,  and  that  we  should  all  be  burnt  up  in 
six  years.  The  Queen  called  a  solemn, 
secret  council  under  the  White  Rose,  to 
decide  whether  we  had  not  better  all  take 
refuge  with  her  brother,  the  King  of  the 
Wood-mice.  Nobody  talked  of  anything 
except  these  terrible  sounds  and  smells,  and 
Karefanaut  and  I  were  ready  to  die  a-laugh- 
ing  from  morning  till  night.  How  little  we 
dreamed  of  the  misery  in  store  for  us  ! 

"You  may  not  think  so,  seeing  me  now," 
continued  the  fairy,  leaning  sadly  against 
the  snuffers,  and  bowing  his  little  head 
under  the  arch  of  flame;  "but,  really,  Kare- 
fauaut  and  I  had  a  merry  time  of  it  as  long 
as  the  yellow  stone  held  out.  At  last,  we 


EUNNA  EIG.  71 

had  used  it  all  up  except  one  large  piece, 
which  was  so  heavy  we  could  not  move  it. 
This  was  a  piece  which  Karefanaut  had 
found  under  the  burdock ;  he  had  harnessed 
two  beetles  to  it,  and  drawn  it  home  in  the 
night:  It  was  quite  a  rock,  and  we  knew 
would  make  a  grand  explosion. 

"Finally,  Karefanaut,  who  had  a  repu 
tation  as  a  student  of  science,  gave  out 
that  he  was  going  to  try  some  experiments 
in  distilling  the  juice  of  poppies,  of  which  a 
great  deal  was  used  in  the  Queen's  nurseries 
as  soothing-syrup.  So  we  built  a  tower  in 
the  poppy-bed  over  our  precious  rock,  and 
carried  up  into  the  top  of  it  many  heavy 
stones.  The  tower  was  so  built  that  by 
pulling  out  one  board  at 'the  bottom,  the 
whole  would  fall.  To  this  board  we  fastened 
a  strong  chain,  the  end  of  which  we  carried 
just  under  ground,  a  long  way  outside  of 
the  garden.  We  knew  better  than  to  be 


72  BITS  OF  TALK. 

very  near  when  this  explosion  took  place. 
For  some  weeks,  after  all  was  ready,  we 
delayed.  Karefanaut,  for  the  ilrst  time  in 
his  life,  was  afraid,  and  I  could  do  nothing 
without  him,  as  it  took  all  the  strength  of 
both  to  lift  the  chain.  At  last,  he  grew 
ashamed  of  his  fears,  and  hurried  me  off 
one  morning  before  I  had  finished  my  break 
fast. 

"The  Queen  was  giving  a  grand  enter 
tainment  in  honor  of  the  marriage  of  her 
youngest  daughter,  Fli  Fasta,  to  her  cousin, 
Heavi  Stepp,  from  the  seashore,  and  we 
thought  that,  perhaps,  the  noise  would  not 
be  noticed  so  much  when  the  court  was  all 
agog  about  this.  Alas  !  what  a  mistake  ! 

"  It  was  a  long  time  before  we  could  start 
the  chain ,  —  it  seemed  to  have  rusted  in  the 
ground.  At  last  it  gave  way  so  suddenly 
that  Karefanaut  and  I  both  fell  over  back 
ward,  and  hurt  ourselves  severely.  Between 


RUNNA  RIG.  73 

the  pain  of  the  fall  and  the  frightful  noise 
which  followed  when  the  tower  fell,  we  were 
too  frightened  to  stir,  and  lay  on  the  ground 
for  an  hour,  looking  at  each  other  without 
speaking  a  word.  Then  I  said  : 

'  We  may  as  well  go  home  first  as  last, 
I  suppose/ 

"No,'  said  Karefanaut,  'I  think  not;  the 
longer  we  are  away,  the  less  likely  we  shall 
be  to  be  suspected.  They  will  think  that 
the  tower  blew  up  of  itself;  and  we  can  say 
that  we  have  been  over  in  the  fir-wood, 
hunting.' 

"  This  seemed  to  me  very  good  advice ;  so 
I  bound  up  an  ugly  cut  on  my  head  with 
clover-blossoms,  and  went  to  sleep  on  a  tuft 
of  grass.  I  slept  all  day,  for  I  was  utterly 
tired  out.  When  I  waked,  Karefanaut  had 
gone.  I  did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
this ;  but  I  loved  him  too  well  to  suspect 
him  of  anything  wrong. 


74  SITS  OF  TALK. 

"I  walked  slowly  toward  home,  growing 
more  and  more  unhappy  and  afraid  at  every 
step.  Alas !  my  worst  forebodings  were 
nothing.  As  soon  as  I  reached  the  border 
of  the  garden,  I  was  seized  by  two  of  the 
Queen's  archers,  who  forbade  me  to  speak, 
and  dragged  me  to  prison.  The  next  morn 
ing  I  was  taken  before  the  Queen  and  all  the 
court,  and  learned  that  the  cowardly  and 
faithless  Karefanaut  had  hastened  back  be 
fore  me,  to  throw  himself  on  their  mercy 
and  confess  all.  He  had  sworn  that  I  was 
the  contriver  of  the  whole  plot,  and  that  1 
had  forced  him  to  help  me  by  the  most 
dreadful  threats.  I  scorned  to  accuse  him  in 
turn,  and  received  my  sentence  in  silence. 
When  I  heard  of  all  the  frightful  ruin  which 
the  explosion  had  caused,  I  was  only  too 
thankful  to  get  off  with  my  life. 

"The  tower  fell  at  noon,  just  as  the  court, 
after  a  late  breakfast,  had  dispersed  for  the 


RUNNA  BIG.  75 

amusements  of  the  day.  The  young  Prince 
Heavi  Stepp  was  swinging  in  the  Grand 
Fandango,  which  the  Queen  had  created  in 
honor  of  his  marriage.  It  was  the  most 
magnificent  one  ever  seen  in  our  court. 
The  seats  were  made  of  white  tiger-lilies, 
and  would  hold  eight  persons.  The  ropes 
were  twisted  of  the  shining  threads  spun  by 
black  spiders,  and  there  were  five  thousand 
strands  to  a  rope.  At  the  moment  of  the 
explosion,  Prince  Heavi  Stepp  had  just 
asked  the  Princess  Fli  Fasta  to  take  her 
seat  in  it  with  him ;  but  she  was  afraid,  and 
he  had  sprung  in  alone,  to  show  her  that 
there  was  no  danger.  At  that  instant  the 
tower  fell.  The  shock  broke  six  of  the 
largest  ropes,  and  threw  the  prince  to  the 
ground.  He  was  not  killed,  but  his  nose 
and  his  right  leg  were  broken,  so  that  he 
was  lamed  and  disfigured  for  life.  The 
princess  fainted  from  fright,  and  for  many 


76  BITS  OF  TALK. 

days  the  doctors  thought  she  would  die. 
The  Queen  herself  did  not  escape.  She 
was  standing  under  a  pink  althea  canopy, 
which  had  been  newly  put  up  for  her  pavil 
ion,  when  a  piece  of  the  blazing  stone  fell 
through  the  top,  utterly  ruining  the  pink 
silk  and  setting  fire  to  the  Queen's  dress.  A 
carpenter  rolled  her  up  in  some  blankets  of 
mullein  which  happened  to  be  lying  there, 
and  this  was  all  that  saved  her  life.  There 
were  more  than  twenty  gold  buttercup-boats 
sailing  in  the  basin  of  the  fountain,  filled 
with  the  most  beautiful  ladies  of  the  court. 
These  were  all  upset,  and  three  of  the  maids  of 
honor  were  drowned.  But  the  saddest  thing 
of  all  was  the  burning  up  of  Moss  Pink 
Square.  A  blazing  brand  fell  right  in  the 
middle  of  it,  and  the  houses  were  so  light 
and  dry,  and  close  together,  that  they  burnt 
like  tinder.  All  the  poor  working-people 
lived  there,  and  they  lost  nearly  everything. 


EUNNA  EIG.  77 

Orl  Twistliup,  the  court  tailor,  in  trying  to 
save  the  Prince  Heavi  Stepp's  wedding-coat, 
which  was  in  a  closet  in  his  shop,  was  so 
badly  burned,  that  he  will  never  be  able  to 
sew  again.  Poor  little  Utta  Trimkiu,  dress 
maker  to  the  Queen,  lost  all  the  rare  and 
beautiful  cloths  which  she  had  bought  to 
make  up  for  the  wedding  ;  and  some  of  them 
could  not  be  replaced,  because  they  were 
bought  of  the  glass-pedler,  who  deals  with 
the  mermaids,  and  only  comes  once  in  a 
hundred  years.  This  was  the  thing  I  felt 
worst  of  all  about,  for  I  knew  Utta  Trim- 
kin  very  well,  and  she  was  a  dear  little  thing. 
I  felt  very  sadly,  too,  about  the  Princess  Fli 
Fasta's  favorite  brown  caterpillar.  She  had 
just  ridden  him  up  to  the  Fandango,  and 
fastened  him  to  a  plantain-leaf.  He  was 
the  only  creature  in  all  the  Queen's  stables 
that  the  Princess  Fli  Fasta  dared  to  mount. 
Whether  he  was  hit  by  a  piece  of  the  burn- 


78  BITS  OF  TALE:. 

ing  stone,  or  died  of  fright,  could  not  be 
told;  but  he  rolled  over  in  a  bail,  and  they 
found  him  stiff  and  dead. 

"Now,  you  will  not  think  our  gracious 
Queen  was  too  severe  in  condemning  me  to 
punishment  by  fire.  I  have  not  told  you 
one-half  of  the  miseiy  and  distress  which 
my  thoughtless  act  caused  in  her  kingdom. 
My  punishment  will  have  come  to  an  end 
long  before  their  traces  have  disappeared. 

"As  soon  as  night  comes,  I  am  obliged  to 
take  my  place  in  a  candlewick,  and  to  stand 
straight  and  still  till  the  wick  is  so  burned 
that  it  falls  of  its  own  accord.  If  the  wick 
is  snuffed,  I  have  to  begin  again,  and  this 
makes  it  almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  For 
this  reason,  I  have  learned  to  look  for 
candles  in  garret-rooms  like  this,  where 
poor  people  live,  for  they  very  seldom  snuff 
their  candles. 

"My  sentence  said  that  I  must  do  this  for 


RUNNA  EIG.  79 

two  hundred  years,  —  that  is,  about  twenty 
years  of  your  time.  Only  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  have  gone ;  but  I  have  great 
hopes  of  being  pardoned  soon.  The  Queen 
is  said  to  be  much  pleased  with  my  patience, 
and  a  petition  has  been  sent  to  her  for  my 
pardon.  It  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  hear  that 
Orl  Twisthup  and  Utta  Trimkin  had  both 
signed  it. 

"As  for  Karefanaut,  he  has  led  a  miser 
able  life.  Everybody  despises  him,  and  I 
would  much  rather  be  in  my  place  than  in 
his. 

"There  is  one  thing  which  I  have  the 
greatest  curiosity  to  know,  which,  perhaps, 
you  can  tell  me,  and  that  is  what  sort  of 
punishment  human  beings  have  when  they 
play  with  ma " 

Phiz  !  sputter  !  over  went  the  snuffers  and 
the  sticks,  —  down  tumbled  the  wick.  ? 
jumped  up  with  such  a  start  that  I  knocks 


80  BITS  OF  TALK 

the  candlestick  to  the  floor,  and  was  left  in 
the  dark ;  and  that  is  the  end  of  the  fairy 
Eunna  Rig's  story. 

Moral :    Never  snuff  candles,    and    don't 
play  with  fire. 


THE  PALACE  OF  GONDOFORUS.          8 1 

THE  PALACE  OF  GONDOFOEUS. 

A   LEGEND  OF  ST.  THOMAS. 

"VT7HEN  King  Gondoforus  desired 

To  have  a  palace  built  that  should 
Be  finer  than  all  palaces 
"Which  in  the  Roman  Empire  stood, 

He  sent  his  provost  Abanes 
To  search  the  countries  far  and  wide 

For  builders  and  for  architects, 
Whose  skill  and  knowledge  had  been  tried. 

Then  God  unto  St.  Thomas  said: 

"  Go,  Thomas,  now,  and  tell  this  king 

That  thou  wilt  build  a  palace  which 
Immortal  fame  to  him  shall  bring." 

• 
Then  to  the  saint,  Gondoforus 

Gave  stores  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
And  precious  stones  and  jewels  rich ; 
Kought  did  the  eager  king  withhold. 
U 


82  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  Now  see  thou  build,  O  saint,"  he  cried, 
All  proud  and  arrogant  of  mien  — 

"  Now  see  thou  build  right  speedily 
Such  palace  as  was  never  seen  I  " 

Then  to  far  countries  journeyed  he  — 
Two  years  and  more  he  staid  away ; 

At  other  sovereigns'  palaces 
All  scornful  gazing,  he  would  say: 

"  St.  Thomas,  sent  from  God,  doth  build 

For  me  a  palace.    God  hath  said 
Its  splendor  an  immortal  fame 
Upon  my  name  and  reign  shall  shed." 

Gondoforus  returned  and  sought 
With  eager  haste  his  palace  site ; 

The  field  was  bare  as  when  he  went, 
The  sod  with  peaceful  daisies  white ! 

"  What  has  the  man  called  Thomas  done 
With  all  my  gold?  "  he  hotly  cried. 

"  Given  it  all  unto  the  poor," 

The  courtiers  sneeringly  replied. 


THE  PALACE  OF  GONDOFORUS.         83 

The  king,  in  rage  no  words  could  tell, 

St.  Thomas  into  prison  threw, 
And  racked  his  brains  to  think  what  he 

For  fitting  punishment  could  do. 


That  very  day,  his  brother  died ; 

His  vengeance  now  must  cool  and  wait ; 
Until  a  royal  tomb  was  built, 

The  royal  corpse  must  lie  in  state. 

Lo !  on  the  fourth  day  sat  erect 
The  royal  corpse,  and  cried  aloud, 

While  all  the  mourners  and  the  guards 
Fled  terror-stricken  in  a  crowd ; 

•'  O  king!  O  brother  I  listen  now, 
These  four  days  I  in  Paradise 
Have  wander'd,  and  return  to  tell 
Thee  what  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes. 

"  This  man  whom  thou  wouldst  torture  is 

God's  servant,  dear  to  God's  own  heart. 
Behold,  the  angels  showed  to  me 
A  palace  wrought  with  wondrous  art, 


84  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  Of  silver,  gold,  and  precious  stones: 

Most  marvellously  it  did  shine ; 
And  when  I  asked  whose  name  it  bore, 
O  brother  I  then  they  told  me  thine  I 

"  '  St.  Thomas  this  hath  built,'  they  said, 

'  For  one  Gondoforus,  a  king.' 
*  It  is  my  brother  I '  I  exclaimed, 

And  fled  to  thee  the  news  to  bring." 

Then  fell  the  royal  corpse  again 
Back,  silent,  solemn  in  its  state ; 

Until  the  royal  tomb  was  built, 
The  royal  corpse  must  lie  and  wait. 

Oh !  swift  the  king  the  prison  doors, 

With  his  own  hands,  did  open  wide. 
"  Come  forth  I  come  forth !  O  worthy  saint  I  " 
He,  kneeling  on  the  threshold,  cried. 


"  The  dead  from  heaven  this  day  hath  come, 

To  tell  me  how  in  Paradise 
The  palace  thou  hast  built  for  me 
Shines  beautiful  in  angels'  eyes. 


THE  PALACE  OF  GOXUOFOBUS.         85 

"  Come  forth  I  coine  forth!  O  noble  saint! 

And  graciously  forgive  my  sin. 
As  honored  guest,  my  palace  gates 
Oh  condescend  to  enter  in  I  " 


Then,  smiling,  said  St.  Thomas,  calm 

And  gracious  as  an  angel  might : 
"  O  king!  didst  thou  not  know  that  we 
Build  not  God's  palaces  in  sight 

"  Of  men,  nor  from  the  things  of  earth? 

All  heaven  lieth  full  and  fair 
"With  palaces  which  charity 
Alone  can  build,  alone  can  share. 

"  Before  the  world  began,  were  laid 

Their  bright  foundations  by  God's  hand, 
For  Charity  to  build  upon, 
As  God  and  his  son  Christ  had  planned. 

"  No  other  palaces  endure; 

No  other  riches  can  remain ; 
No  other  kingdoms  are  secure ; 
No  other  kings  eternal  reign." 


86  SITS  OF  TALK. 

Henceforth  the  king,  Gondoforus, 
"Went  on  his  way,  triumphant,  glad, 

Remembering  what  a  palace  he 
Already  in  the  heavens  had. 

No  more  the  Roman  emperors 
With  envy  could  his  bosom  move. 

How  poor  their  palaces  by  side 
Of  one  not  made  with  hands,  above  I 

His  treasures  in  the  good  saint's  hands 
He  poured,  and  left  for  him  to  use, 

In  adding  to  that  palace  fair 
Such  courts  and  towers  as  he  might  choose. 


And  there  to-day  they  dwell,  I  ween, 
With  other  saints  and  other  kings ; 

And  roam  with  hosts  of  angels  bright, 
From  place  to  place,  on  shining  wings. 


TUE  ANTS'  MONDAY  DINNER.  8? 


THE   ANTS    MONDAY  DINNER. 

T  TOW  did  I  know  what  the  ants  had  for 
dinner  last  Monday?     Ha,   it   is    odd 
that  I  should  have  known,  but  I'll  tell  you 
how  it  happened. 

I  was  sitting  under  a  big  pine-tree,  high 
up  on  a  high  hill-side.  The  hill-side  was 
more  than  seven  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  and  that  is  higher  than  many  mountains 
which  people  travel  hundreds  of  miles  to 
look  at.  But  this  hill-side  was  in  Colorado, 
so  there  was  nothing  wonderful  in  being  so 
high  up.  I  had  been  watching  the  great 
mountains  with  snow  on  them,  and  the  great 
forests  of  pine-trees  —  miles  and  miles  of 
them —  so  close  together  that  it  looks  as  if 
you  could  lie  down  on  their  tops  and  not 
fall  through ;  and  my  eyes  were  tired  with 


88  BITS  OF  TALK. 

looking  at  such  great,  grand  things,  so  many 
miles  off;  so  I  looked  down  on  the  ground 
where  I  was  sitting,  and  watched  the  ants 
which  were  running  about  everywhere,  as 
busy  and  restless  as  if  theyjatid  the  whole 
world  on  their  shoulders. 

Suddenly  I  saw,  under  a  tuft  of  grass,  a 
tiny  yellow  caterpillar,  which  seemed  to  be 
bounding  along  in  a  very  strange  way.  In 
a  second  more,  I  saw  an  ant  seize  hold  of 
him  and  begin  to  drag  him  off.  The  cater 
pillar  was  three  times  as  long  as  the  ant, 
and  his  body  was  more  than  twice  as  large 
round  as  the  biggest  part  of  the  ant's  body. 

"Ho  !  ho  !  Mr.  Ant,"  said  I,  "you  needn't 
think  you're  going  to  be  strong  enough  to 
drag  that  fellow  very  far." 

Why,  it  was  about  the  same  thing  as  if  you 
or  I  should  drag  off  a  heifer,  which  was  kick 
ing  and  struggling  for  dear  life  all  the  time  ; 
only  that  the  heifer  hasn't  half  so  many  legs 


THE  ANTS'  MONDAY  DINNER.  89 

to  catch  hold  of  things  with  as  the  cater 
pillar  had.  Poor  caterpillar !  how  he  did 
try  to  get  away !  But  the  ant  never  gave 
him  a  second's  time  to  take  a  good  grip  of 
anything;  audjie  was  cunning  enough,  too, 
to  drag  him  on  his  side,  so  that  he  couldn't 
use  his  legs  very  well.  Up  and  down,  and 
under  and  over  stones  and  sticks ;  in  and 
out  of  tufts  of  grass  ;  up  to  the  very  top  of 
the  tallest  blades,  and  then  down  again ; 
over  gravel  and  sand,  and  across  bridges  of 
pine-needles  from  stone  to  stone  ;  backward 
all  the  way  —  but  for  all  I  could  see,  just 
as  swiftly  as  if  he  were  going  headforemost 
—  ran  that  ant,  dragging  the  caterpillar 
after  him.  I  watched  him  very  closely, 
thinking,  of  course,  he  must  be  making  for 
his  house.  Presently,  he  darted  up  the 
trunk  of  the  pine-tree. 

w  Dear  me  ! "  said  I,  "  ants  don't  live  in 
trees  !     What  does  this  mean  ?  " 


9O  BITS  OF  TALK. 

The  bark  of  the  tree  was  all  broken  and 
jagged,  and  full  of  seams  twenty  times  as 
deep  as  the  height  of  the  ant's  body.  But 
he  didn't  mind ;  down  one  side  and  up  the 
other  he  went.  They  must  have  been  awful 
chasms  to  him ;  and  to  the  poor  caterpillar 
too,  for  their  sharp  edges  caught  and  tore  his 
skin,  and  doubled  him  up  a  dozen  ways  in  a 
minute.  And  yet  the  ant  never  once  stopped 
or  went  a  bit  slower.  I  had  to  watch  very 
closely,  not  to  lose  sight  of  him  altogether. 
I  began  to  think  that  he  was  merely  trying 
to  kill  the  caterpillar;  that,  perhaps,  he 
didn't  mean  to  eat  him,  after  all.  Perhaps 
he  was  merely  a  gentlemanly  sportsman  ant, 
out  on  a  frolic.  How  did  I  know  but  some 
ants  might  hunt  caterpillars,  just  as  some 
men  hunt  deer,  for  fun,  and  not  at  all  be 
cause  they  need  food  ?  If  I  had  been  sure 
of  this,  I  would  have  spoiled  Mr.  Ant's 
sport  for  him  very  soon,  you  may  be  sure, 


THE  ANT&  MONDAY  DINNER.  91 

and  set  the  poor  caterpillar  free.  But  I 
never  heard  of  an  ant's  being  cruel ;  and  if 
it  were  really  for  dinner  for  his  family  that 
he  was  working  so  hard,  I  thought  he  ought 
to  be  helped,  and  not  hindered.  Just  then 
my  attention  was  diverted  from  him  by  a 
sharp  cry  overhead.  I  looked  up,  and  there 
was  an  enormous  hawk,  sailing  round  in 
circles,  with  two  small  birds  flying  after 
him,  pouncing  down  on  his  head,  and  then 
darting  away,  and  all  the  time  making  shrill 
cries  of  fright  and  hatred.  I  knew  very 
well  what  that  meant.  Mr.  Hawk  was  also 
out  trying  to  do  some  marketing  for  his 
dinner ;  and  he  had  his  eye  on  some  little 
birds  in  their  nest ;  and  there  were  the 
father  and  mother  birds  driving  him  away. 
You  wouldn't  have  believed  two  such  little 
birds  could  have  driven  off  such  a  big  crea 
ture  as  the  hawk,  but  they  did.  They 
seemed  to  fairly  buzz  round  his  head  as  flies 


92  BITS  OF  TALK. 

do  round  a  horse's  head,  and  at  last  he 
just  gave  up  and  flew  off  so  far  that  he 
vanished  in  the  blue  sky,  and  the  little 
birds  came  skimming  home  again  into  the 
wood. 

"Well,  well,"  said  I,  "  the  little  people  are 
stronger  than  the  big  ones,  after  all !  Where 
has  my  ant  gone  ?  " 

Sure  enough  !  It  hadn't  been  two  minutes 
that  I  had  been  watching  the  hawk  and  the 
birds,  but  in  that  two  minutes  the  ant  and 
the  caterpillar  had  disappeared.  At  last  I 
found  them, — whei^e  do  you  think?  In  a 
fold  of  my  water-proof  cloak,  on  which  I 
was  sitting !  The  ant  had  let  go  of  the 
caterpillar,  and  was  running  round  and  round 
him,  perfectly  bewildered ;  and  the  cater 
pillar  was  too  near  dead  to  stir.  I  shook 
the  fold  out,  and  as  soon  as  the  cloth  lay 
straight  and  smooth,  the  ant  fastened  his 
nippers  in  the  caterpillar  again,  and  started 


THE  ANTS1  MONDAY  DINNER.  93 

off  as  fast  as  ever.  I  suppose  if  I  could 
have  seen  his  face,  and  had  understood  the 
language  of  ants'  features,  I  should  have 
seen  plainly  written  there,  "Dear  me,  what 
sort  of  a  country  was  that  I  tumbled  into, 
so  frightfully  black  and  smooth?"  By  this 
time  the  caterpillar  had  had  the  breath  pretty 
well  knocked  out  of  his  body,  and  was  so 
limp  and  helpless  that  the  ant  was  not  afraid 
of  his  getting  away  from  him.  So  he  stopped 
a  second  now  and  then  to  rest.  Sometimes 
he  would  spring  on  the  caterpillar's  back, 
and  stretch  himself  out  there  ;  sometimes  he 
would  stand  still  on  one  side  and  look  at 
him  sharply,  keeping  one  nipper  on  his  head. 
All  the  time,  though,  he  was  working  steadily 
in  one  direction ;  he  was  headed  for  home 
now,  I  felt  very  certain.  It  astonished  me 
veiy  much  at  first,  that  none  of  the  ants  he 
met  took  any  notice  of  him ;  they  all  went 
on  their  o\vn  way,  and  never  took  so  much 


94  SITS  OF  TALK. 

as  a  sniff  at  the  caterpillar.  But  pretty  soon 
I  said  to  myself, — 

"You  stupid  woman,  not  to  suppose  that 
ants  can  be  as  well  behaved  as  people ! 
When  you  passed  Mr.  Jones  yesterday,  you 
didn't  peep  into  his  market-basket,  nor  touch 
the  big  cabbage  he  had  under  his  arm." 

Presently,  the  ant  dropped  the  caterpillar, 
and  ran  on  a  few  steps  —  I  mean  inches — to 
meet  another  ant  who  was  coming  towards 
him.  They  put  their  heads  close  together 
for  a  second.  I  could  not  hear  what  they 
said,  but  I  could  easily  imagine,  for  they 
both  ran  quickly  back  to  the  caterpillar, 
and  one  took  him  by  the  head  and  the  other 
by  the  tail,  and  then  they  lugged  him  along 
finely.  It  was  only  a  few  steps,  however, 
to  the  ant's  house ;  that  was  the  reason  he 
happened  to  meet  this  friend  just  coming 
out.  The  door  was  a  round  hole  in  the 
ground,  about  as  big  as  my  little  finger. 


THE  ANTS'  MONDAY  DINNER.  95 

Several  ants  were  standing  in  the  door-way, 
watching  these  two  come  up  with  the  cater 
pillar.  They  all  took  hold  as  soon  as  the 
caterpillar  was  on  the  door-step,  and  almost 
before  I  knew  he  was  fairly  there,  they  had 
tumbled  him  down,  heels  over  head,  into 
the  ground,  and  that  was  the  last  I  saw  of 
him. 

The  oddest  thing  was.,  how  the  ants  came 
running  home  from  all  directions.  I  don't 
believe  there  was  any  dinner-bell  rung, 
though  there  might  have  been  one  too  fine 
for  my  ears  to  hear;  but  in  less  than  a 
minute,  I  had  counted  thirty-three  ants  run 
ning  down  that  hole.  I  fancied  they  looked 
as  hungry  as  wolves. 

I  had  a  great  mind  to  dig  down  into  the 
hole  with  a  stick,  and  see  what  had  become 
of  the  caterpillar.  But  I  thought  it  wasn't 
quite  fair  to  take  the  roof  off  a  man's  house 
to  find  out  how  he  cooks  his  beef  for  dinner  ; 


96  BITS  OF  TALK. 

so  I  sat  still  awhile,  and  wondered  whether 
they  would  lay  him  out  straight  on  the  floor, 
and  all  stand  in  rows  each  side  of  him  and 
nibble  across,  and  whether  they  would  leave 
any  for  Tuesday ;  and  then  I  went  home  to 
my  own  dinner. 


THE  NEST  97 


THE  NEST. 

T  TNDER  the  apple-tree,  somebody  said, 
Look  at  that  robin's  nest  overhead  I 
All  of  sharp  sticks,  and  of  mud  and  clay  — 
What  a  rough  home  for  a  summer  day !  " 
Gaunt  stood  the  apple-tree,  gaunt  and  bare, 
And  creaked  in  the  winds  which  blustered  there. 
The  nest  was  wet  with  the  April  rain ; 
The  clay  ran  down  in  an  ugly  stain ; 
Little  it  looked,  I  must  truly  say, 
Like  a  lovely  home  for  a  summer  day. 

Up  in  the  apple-tree,  somebody  laughed, 
Little  you  know  of  the  true  home-craft. 
Laugh  if  you  like,  at  my  sticks  and  clay ; 
They'll  make  a  good  home  for  a  summer  day. 
.May  turns  the  apple-tree  pink  and  white, 
Sunny  all  day.  and  fragrant  all  night. 
My  babies  will  never  feel  the  showers, 
For  rain  can't  get  through  these  feathers  of  ours. 
Snug  under  my  wings  they  will  cuddle  and  creep, 
The  happiest  babies  awake  or  asleep," 
Said  the  robin-mother,  flying  away 
After  more  of  the  sticks  and  mud  and  clay. 
7 


98  BITS  OF  TALlL. 

Under  the  apple-tree  somebody  sighed, 
"Ah  me,  the  blunder  of  folly  and  pride! 
The  roughest  small  house  of  mud  or  clay 
Might  be  a  sweet  home  for  a  summer  day, 
Sunny  and  fragrant  all  day,  all  night, 
"With  only  good  cheer  for  fragrance  and  light ; 
And  the  bitterest  storms  of  grief  and  pain 
Will  beat  and  break  on  that  home  in  vain, 
"Where  a  true-hearted  mother  broods  alway, 
And  makes  the  whole  year  like  a  summer  day.* 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.         99 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO 
IN  KOME. 


nnHE  little  children  in  Rome  do  not  get 
their  holiday-presents  on  Christmas; 
they  have  them  almost  two  weeks  later,  on 
the  sixth  of  January.  This  is  because  the 
Roman  Catholics  think  that  was  the  day  on 
which  the  wise  men  brought  their  gifts  to 
the  babe  Christ  Jesus,  in  the  stable  in 
Bethlehem.  And  they  do  not  say,  as  the 
Germans  do,  that  the  dear  little  Christ-child 
brings  the  presents  ;  or,  as  we  do,  that  jolly 
Santa  Claus  comes  riding  round  in  the 
air,  above  the  chimney-tops,  and  drops  the 
presents  down.  They  tell  quite  a  gloomy 
story  about  an  old  woman  they  call  the 
Bifana.  They  say  that  when  the  wise  men 
went  by  her  house,  carrying  the  presents 


100  BITS  OF  TALK. 

to  the  baby  Jesus,  somebody  called  to  her 
to  coine  to  the  window  and  see  them ;  but 
she  said  she  was  too  busy  to  stop,  she  would 
see  them  when  they  came  back.  But  the 
wise  men,  you  know,  went  out  of  Judea  by 
another  road ;  and  the  story  says,  that  to 
this  day  the  old  woman  is  watching,  watch 
ing  for  the  wise  men  to  come  back ;  and  as 
often  as  Twelfth  Night  comes  round  she  has 
to  fly  over  the  earth,  carrying  the  presents 
to  the  children.  To  the  good  children  she 
gives  nice  things  ;  but  to  the  bad  ones,  only 
bags  of  ashes.  I  always  felt  very  sorry  for 
the  poor  little  Roman  children,  to  think 
that  they  did  not  hear  about  the  beautiful 
Christ-kindchen,  or  our  good  St.  Nicholas. 
However,  they  have  a  very  good  time  out  of 
their  "Ekifania,"  which  is  the  name  they 
give  the  festival ;  and  I  will  tell  you  about 
the  place  where  most  of  the  presents  are 
sold. 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  ESTACl.       lOI 

It  is  in  the  square  of  SanTCustachfo'i  whic'n 
is  almost  in  the  middle  of  Rome,  and  very 
near  the  Pantheon. 

For  three  hundred  and  fifty-five  days  in  the 
year  this  square,  or  "  piazza,"  as  it  is  called  in 
Italian,  is  quite  dull  and  dingy-looking,  and 
has  only  a  few  common  shops  and  little 
booths  on  the  side  of  the  street,  where 
common  wares  are  sold.  But  for  ten  days 
before  Twelfth  Night,  it  is  so  full  of  booths, 
and  stalls,  and  shelves,  and  piles  of  things 
to  be  sold,  that  one  cannot  drive  through  it. 
Here  come  all  the  Roman  fathers  and  mothers 
who  are  not  very  rich ;  they  bring  their 
children  and  buy  presents  for  them. 

The  rich  people  go  to  fine  shops  on  the 
Corso,  which  is  the  Broadway  of  Rome,  and 
buy  much  handsomer  things ;  but  I  do  not 
believe  their  children  have  half  such  fun  as 
the  little  children  do  who  can  go  into  the 
square  of  San  Eustachio  at  night. 


102  SITS  OF  TALK. 

<3ne  Winter*!  wont'  myself,  with  a  Roman 
girl,  whose  name  was  Marianina.  She  was 
our  servant,  and  she  was  seventeen  years  old, 
and  she  went  to  take  care  of  me ;  but  I  felt 
all  the  time  as  if  I  had  a  child  with  me  who 
was  about  nine.  She  enjoyed  it  so  much,  and 
laughed  so  hard  all  the  time,  that  I  liked  it 
much  better  being  alone  with  her,  and  trying 
to  make  believe  that  I  was  another  Roman 
girl,  than  I  should  to  have  gone  with  people 
of  my  own  race. 

It  wras  a  bitter  cold  night.  The  Tra 
Montana  (that  is  the  Roman  name  for  the 
wind  that  comes  down  from  the  mountains) 
blew  furiously ;  but  Marianina  had  nothing 
on  her  head,  only  a  little  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  and  no  gloves  on  her  hands.  She 
never  had  anything  on  her  head  in  her  life, 
unless,  perhaps,  a  white  pocket-handkerchief; 
all  the  poor  women  in  Rome  go  bareheaded* 

Our  house  was  in  the  Via  Quattro  Fontane. 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.        103 

Is  not  that  a  pretty  name?  It  means  the 
street  of  the  Four  Fountains;  and  there 
really  were  four  fountains  in  it.  Up  at  top 
of  the  hill,  above  our  house,  where  another 
street  crossed,  a  fountain  was  set  in  each 
corner,  with  a  great  dusty  old  stone  statue 
lying  behind  it,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  lain 
there  for  hundreds  of  years.  The  hill  was 
so  steep  that  I  never  liked  to  see  horses 
drawing  a  carriage  up  it ;  almost  every  day 
some  poor  horse  tumbled  down  on  his  knees 
trying  to  get  up.  The  streets  in  Rome  are 
all  paved  with  little  bits  of  lava,  which  are 
very  slippery.  So  I  said  to  Marianina  on 
this  night :  "We  will  walk  down  to  the 
Barberini  Piazza,  and  get  into  a  little  carriage 
there ;  I  will  not  have  a  horse  come  up  this 
steep  hill  to-night." 

The  Barberini  Piazza  was  a  square  at  the 
foot  of  our  hill,  and  all  day  ten  or  twelve 
little  one-horse  carriages  stood  there,  wait- 


104  mTS  OF  TALK. 

ing  to  be  hired.  When  the  drivers  saw  ua 
coming  down,  they  would  all  spring  up  on 
their  seats,  and  whip  their  horses,  and  drive 
right  at  us,  like  an  army  making  a  charge, 
holding  up  their  whips,  and  shouting  out, 
"Signora,  this  is  a  good  horse,  this  is  a 
good  carriage,  Signora,"  till  sometimes  we 
were  afraid  of  being  run  over.  At  last,  I 
made  a  rule  that  I  would  never  take  any  one 
who  drove  after  me,  and  when  they  found 
that  out,  they  were  more  quiet.  This  night, 
there  was  only  one  poor  little  carriage  stand 
ing  there ;  and  the  horse  was  so  thin  and 
weak,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  just  ready  to 
die.  Marianina  looked  at  me  with  a  very 
sad  face ;  she  was  afraid  I  would  not  be 
willing  to  go  in  such  a  shabby  carriage ; 
but  I  jumped  in,  and  Marianina  sang  out  to 
the  driver,  "  Go  to  the  Piazza  San  Eustachio, 
as  fast  as  you  can ;  "  and  then  she  laughed 
out  loud  in  spite  of  herself,  she  was  so 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.        105 

pleased.  She  had  never  been  out  to  the 
Twelfth  Night  Festa  before. 

The  poor  old  horse  did  not  draw  us  very 
far.  He  had  not  gone  more  than  two-thirds 
of  the  way  before  he  slipped  down  flat,  and 
could  not  get  up.  The  driver  began  to  beat 
him  cruelly  ;  but  I  sprang  out,  and  gave  the 
man  a  small  piece  of  money,  and  told  him 
as  well  as  I  could,  in  my  bad  Italian,  that  he 
was  a  cruel  man  not  to  give  his  poor  horse 
more  to  eat.  What  do  you  think  he  said? 
"Ah!  Siguora,  he  has  more  to  eat  than  1 
have  ! " 

Then  I  took  tight  hold  of  Marianina's 
hand,  and  we  walked  along  with  the  crowd. 
Everybody  was  going  toward  San  Eustachio. 
The  crowd  was  pretty  thick,  even  so  far  off 
as  this ;  but  it  was  no  crowd  at  all  in  com 
parison  with  what  it  was  when  we  got  into 
the  square  itself.  At  first  I  was  a  little 
frightened.  I  did  not  like  being  pushed  on 


106  BITS  OF  TALK. 

all  sides  at  orlce,  and  having  one  boy  blow  a 
great  whistle  in  one  of  my  ears,  while  another 
flapped  a  great  monkey-jack  up  and  down 
under  my  nose.  But,  in  a  few  minutes,  I 
saw  that  they  were  all  just  as  good-natured 
as  they  could  be,  and  that  there  really  was 
not  the  slightest  danger  of  getting  hurt ;  so 
I  gave-  up  minding  about  being  pushed, 
and  then  I  had  as  good  a  time  as  Marianina. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  half  the  things  that 
were  there  to  be  sold  in  those  queer  little 
out-door  shops,  with  flaring  tallow  candles 
or  smoking  oil-lamps  to  see  by.  Every 
thing  you  have  ever  seen  in  a  toy-shop  in 
New  York  was  there ;  but  of  course  not  so 
nicely  made.  There  were  stalls  full  of 
games ;  stalls  full  of  books,  and  portfolios, 
and  stationery  of  all  sorts ;  great  piles  and 
pyramids  of  baskets,  with  candles  burning 
away  at  top  of  them,  which  it  made  you 
shudder  to  see, — it  would  be  so  easy  for 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.       107 

one  upset  to  kindle  the  whole  in  a  blaze ; 
stalls  of  crockery ;  stalls  of  woollen  scarfs, 
and  mittens,  and  comforters  ;  stalls  of  plaster 
images ;  stalls  of  cheap  jewelry ;  stalls  of 
pictures  of  the  Madonna  and  all  the  saints  ; 
stalls  of  lamps ;  stalls  of  combs ;  stalls  of 
tin- ware,  and  stalls  of  iron ;  baby-houses, 
and  theatres,  and  fiddles,  and  donkeys  on 
wheels,  and  horses  with  tails  made  out  of 
hen's  feathers,  and  noses  painted  blue,  —  oh  ! 
how  they  would  have  made  you  laugh  !  The 
prettiest  stalls  were  the  stalls  of  dolls  ;  some 
of  them  were  arranged  in  rows  of  shelves, 
one  above  another,  high  up  in  the  air,  on 
which  the  dolls  stood  up,  packed  closely 
side  by  side,  as  close  as  sardines  in  a 
box.  There  were  so  many  rows  that  the 
upper  row  seemed  almost  out  of  sight,  way 
up  in  the  dark.  Others,  who  could  not 
afford  to  have  nice  wooden  shelves,  had 
stuck  two  poles  into  the  ground,  and  swung 


108  BITS  OF  TALK. 

cords  across  from  pole  to  pole,  and  tied 
their  dolls  by  the  necks  on  these  cords ; 
there  they  swung  back  and  forth,  the  poor 
hung  dollies,  and  looked  very  uncomfortable. 
In  front  of  the  rows  of  dolls  were  rows  of 
drums,  and  on  the  drums  were  bells ;  but 
nobody  could  tell  me  why  drums  and  bells 
always  went  with  the  dolls. 

Then  there  were  other  people  with  things 
to  sell,  who  could  not  afford  even  two  poles 
and  a  string,  so  they  spread  theirs  down  on 
the  ground,  and  had  a  few  bits  of  candles 
stuck  in  tins  to  light  up  their  show.  It 
proved  how  good-natured  the  Italians  are, 
that  this  whole  crowd  took  the  greatest  pos 
sible  pains  to  turn  out  for  these  poor  little 
spreads  of  things,  and  never  trod  on  them. 
I  noticed  one  old  woman  sitting  flat  on  the 
stones,  by  a  dozen  or  two  crockery  plates ; 
one  boy  with  a  few  gay-colored  cotton  band- 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.       109 

kerchiefs  spread  out  on  the  pavement,  and 
another  with  a  row  of  photograph  albums. 

Very  many  had  large  wooden  trays  swung 
by  a  string  round  their  necks,  and  loaded  so 
full  of  things  that  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
first  step  in  such  a  crowd  would  spill  them 
all,  but  I  did  not  see  a  single  one  tip  over. 
One  boy  had  his  tray  full  of  salt-cellars, 
and  glass  and  china ;  others  had  funny  fig 
ures  and  toys ;  others  carried  long  sticks 
strung  full  of  a  sort  of  jumble-cake,  which 
the  Romans  call  "giambelli,"  and  are  very 
fond  of  eating. 

Now,  I  have  left  to  the  last  the  oddest  thing 
of  all  about  this  crowd ;  almost  every  man 
and  boy  in  it  had  a  whistle,  or  a  trumpet,  01 
a  horn,  or  a  drum,  or  a  rattle,  and  blew,  and 
rattled,  and  beat,  and  screamed  with  all  his 
might,  till  the  noise  was  something  which 
could  not  be  described.  What  with  the 
rattles,  and  whistles,  and  drums,  and  horns, 


HO  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  everybody's  shouting  and  laughing,  yon 
could  not  hear  yourself  speak.  You  must 
not  think  it  was  only  boys  who  did  this ; 
grown-up  men  liked  it  just  as  much,  and 
blew  and  screamed  quite  as  loud ;  neither 
was  it  confined  to  the  Romans.  Every 
now  and  then,  I  met  a  party  of  English  or 
American  people  who  had  come  out  to  see, 
and  they  were  all  blowing  whistles  and  beat 
ing  drums,  just  like  the  rest.  One  young 
gentleman  whom  I  knew  came  up  behind 
me,  and  blew  in  my  ear  such  a  blast  from  a 
great  tin  trumpet  that  I  gave  a  jump,  and 
nearly  knocked  poor  little  Marianina  down. 

I  forgot,  too,  to  say  that  more  than  half  of 
the  people  carried  torches ;  and  as  some  of 
the  stalls  were  set  thick  with  rows  of  blazing 
candles,  it  was  as  light  as  clay  in  some  parts 
of  the  square,  and  then,  again,  in  others  it 
would  be  quite  dark. 

We  went  away  at  eleven  o'clock,  for  I 


FESTIVAL  OF  SAN  EUSTACHIO.       1 1  r 

was  afraid  to  be  there  any  later  alone  with 
Marianina ;  but  the  fun  always  lasts  until 
two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Some 
times,  about  midnight,  the  Roman  nobility 
go  into  the  square  to  look  on,  and  see  how 
the  people  amuse  themselves.  They  used 
to  throw  money  into  the  crowd  to  see  them 
scramble  for  it,  but  they  do  not  do  that 
now. 

When  Marianina  left  me  to  go  to  bed,  she 
kissed  my  hand  and  almost  cried,  she  was 
so  grateful  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
Festa,  and  for  the  few  things  I  had  bought 
for  her. 

"  G razzia,  O  grazzia,  Signora  mia.  Felic- 
issima  notte  !  "  she  said.  I  wonder  if  that 
will  sound  as  pleasantly  printed  as  it  sounds 
when  the  affectionate  Italian  women  say  it. 
It  means,  "  Thanks,  thanks,  my  lady  I  The 
happiest  of  nights  to  you  ! " 


112  BITS  OF  TALK. 


COLOKADO  SNOW-BIKDS. 

T'LL  tell  you  how  the  snow-birds  come, 

Here  in  our  Winter  days ; 
They  make  me  think  of  chickens, 
With  their  cunning  little  ways. 

We  go  to  bed  at  night,  and  leave 

The  ground  all  bare  and  brown, 
And  not  a  single  snow-bird 

To  be  seen  in  all  the  town. 

But  when  we  wake  at  morning 

The  ground  with  snow  is  white, 
And  with  the  snow,  the  snow-birds 

Must  have  travelled  all  the  night; 

For  the  streets  and  yards  are  full  of  them, 

The  dainty  little  things, 
With  snow-white  breasts,  and  soft  brown  heads, 

And  speckled  russet  wings. 


COLORADO  SNOW-BIRDS.  113 

Not  here  and  there  a  snow-bird, 

As  we  see  them  at  the  East, 
But  in  great  flocks,  like  grasshoppers, 

By  hundreds,  at  the  least, 

They  push  and  crowd  and  jostle, 

And  twitter  as  they  feed, 
And  hardly  lift  their  heads  up, 

For  fear  to  miss  a  seed. 

What  'tis  they  eat,  nobody  seems 

To  know  or  understand ; 
The  seeds  are  much  too  fine  to  see, 

All  sifted  in  the  sand. 

But  winds  last  Summer  scattered  them, 

All  thickly  on  these  plains ; 
The  little  snow-birds  have  no  barns, 

But  God  protects  their  grains. 

They  let  us  come  quite  near  them, 

And  show  no  sign  of  dread; 
Then,  in  a  twinkling,  the  whole  flock 

Will  flutter  on  ahead 

8 


114  BITS  OF  TALK. 

A  step  or  two,  and  light,  and  feed, 
And  look  demure  and  tame, 

And  then  fly  on  again,  and  stop, 
As  if  it  were  a  game. 

Some  flocks  count  up  to  thousands, 
I  know,  and  when  they  fly, 

Their  tiny  wings  make  rustle, 
As  if  a  wind  went  by. 

They  go  as  quickly  as  they  come, 

Go  in  a  night  or  day ; 
Soon  as  the  snow  has  melted  off, 

The  darlings  fly  away, 

But  come  again,  again,  again, 
All  Winter,  with  each  snow ; 

Brave  little  armies,  through  the  cold, 
Swift  back  and  forth  they  go. 

I  always  wondered  where  they  lived 

In  Summer,  till  last  year 
I  stumbled  on  them  in  their  home, 

High  in  the  upper  air ; 


COLORADO  SNOW-BIEDS.  1 1 5 

'Way  up  among  the  clouds  it  was, 

A  many  thousand  feet, 
But  on  the  mountain-side  gay  flowers 

"Were  blooming  fresh  and  sweet. 

Great  pine-trees'  swaying  branches 

Gave  cool  and  fragrant  shade ; 
And  here,  we  found,  the  snow-birds 

Their  Summer  home  had  made. 

"  Oh,  lucky  little  snow-birds  I  " 
We  said,  "  to  know  so  well, 
In  Summer  time  and  Winter  time, 
Your  destined  place  to  dwell  — 

"  To  journey,  nothing  doubting, 

Down  to  the  barren  plains, 
Where  harvests  are  all  over, 
To  find  your  garnered  grains ! 

**  Oh,  precious  little  snow-birds! 

If  we  were  half  as  wise, 
If  we  were  half  as  trusting 
To  the  Father  in  the  skies,  ^» 


Tl6  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  He  would  feed  us,  though  the  harvests 

Had  ceased  throughout  the  land, 
And  hold  us,  all  our  lifetime,  * 
In  the  hollow  of  his  hand! " 


THE  WATEE-WOEK8  OF  HEILBEUN.    117 


THE  WATER-WORKS  OF  HEILBEUN. 

'THHE  Chateau  of  Heilbrun  is  near  Salz 
burg,  iu  Austria.  Chateau  is  only 
another  name  for  house,  though  it  does 
sound  so  grand.  I  have  seen  many  chateaus 
which  made  very  pretty  pictures  when  they 
were  photographed,  but  which  were  nothing 
in  the  world  but  tumble-down  old  houses, 
that  we  in  America  should  not  think  nice  to 
live  in.  But  this  house  of  Heilbrun  is  quite 
a  good  one,  though  it  was  built  two  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago.  It  was  built  by  an  old 
archbishop  of  Salzburg,  whose  name  was 
Marcus  Sitticus.  He  must  have  been  as 
fond  of  playing  with  water  as  any  boy  in 
America,  I  am  sure  ;  for  instead  of  spending 
his  money  in  building  a  handsome  house, 
he  spent  it  on  making  all  sorts  of  curious 


Il8  BITS  OF  TALK. 

water-works  on  his  grounds.  On  every 
path  and  in  every  grove  there  are  stone 
statues  of  men,  figures  of  dogs  and  of 
horses,  all  of  which  are  throwing  water  out 
of  their  mouths  as  hard  as  they  can.  You 
cannot  walk  ten  steps  without  coming  on 
some  new  kind  of  thing  either  to  hold  water 
or  to  spout  water ;  and  there  is  so  much 
water  dripping  and  trickling,  and  showering 
about,  that  it  seems  as  if  you  were  out  in  a 
rain. 

But  the  most  curious  water-works  are  in  a 
part  of  the  grounds  which  is  kept  locked 
up,  and  under  the  care  of  a  man  called  the 
water-master.  He  keeps  the  keys,  and 
knows  how  to  let  on  the  water  to  make  all 
the  machinery  go.  The  day  we  went  to 
Heilbrun  happened  to  be  a  w  feast-day  "  for 
the  people  (that  is,  a  day  on  which  they  do 
not  work) .  So  we  had  the  good  luck  to  go 
in  with  a  crowd  of  poor  workingmen  and 


THE  WATEE-WOEKS  OF  HEILBKUN.    119 

women ;  and  it  was  almost  as  good  fun  to 
see  them  as  it  was  to  see  the  water-works. 

The  water-master  was  a  droll  little  man, 
with  a  gray  beard  and  a  fat  red  face.  He 
never  laughed;  but  his  eyes  twinkled,  and 
he  watched  us  all  the  time  to  see  what  we 
thought  of  his  show.  When  he  heard  that 
we  were  from  America,  he  was  very  kind  to 
us,  and  took  great  pains  to  put  us  in  good 
places,  where  we  could  see  well  without 
being  wet.  Everybody  in  Europe  love? 
America,  because  it  is  a  free  country.  I 
mean  all  the  poor  people  do.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  so  many  of  them  come  away 
from  their  homes  to  live  with  us.  I  should 
think  they  would  all  come,  to  get  away  from 
the  kings. 

The  first  place  the  water-master  took  us 
into  was  a  great  cave.  It  was  so  dark  that 
at  first  we  could  hardly  see  to  walk.  Then 
in  a  few  minutes  it  seemed  to  grow  lighter, 


1 2O  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  we  saw  a  great  stone  basin  full  of  water. 
Mosses  and  ferns  were  growing  up  around  it, 
and  little  fir-trees  were  set  up  against  the  side 
of  the  cave.  In  this  basin  were  a  great  red 
lobster  and  a  black  dolphin,  made  of  wood. 
The  water-master  went  into  a  corner  and 
touched  some  spring,  and  the  lobster  and 
dolphin  both  began  to  sail  round  and  round 
in  the  basin  as  if  they  were  alive.  Sounds 
like  the  singing  of  all  sorts  of  birds  came 
from  among  the  fir-trees ;  and  then  came 
the  words  rf  cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  just  as  plainly 
as  the  cuckoo  itself  could  have  said  it ;  and 
all  this  was  done  by  machinery,  which  was 
moved  by  the  water. 

Then  we  went  to  another  cave ;  and  all 
there  was  to  be  seen  in  this  was  a  huge  stone 
face  set  in  the  wall,  painted  red  and  white, 
like  a  mask,  and  with  enormous  black  eyes.  I 
was  just  beginning  to  wonder  what  this  could 
mean ;  when  oh  !  what  a  jump  we  all  gave. 


THE  WATEE-WOEKS  OF  HEILBEUN.    121 

to  see  it  suddenly  roll  up  its  eyes,  open  its 
mouth,  and  show  a  fiery  red  tongue,  which 
caine  out  ever  so  far  and  turned  up  on  the 
nose,  and  then  went  back  again  into  the 
mouth.  It  was  almost  too  ugly  to  look  at ; 
and  yet  it  was  very  droll,  for  the  eyes  kept 
rolling  up  and  the  red  tongue  running  out 
as  fast  as  'they  could.  The  peasants  all 
shouted  and  screamed  with  delight;  this 
pleased  them  much  more  than  the  lobster 
and  dolphin.  Then  the  water-master  made 
us  all  stand  back  on  each  side  of  the  cave ; 
and,  before  we  could  ask  what  for,  out  flew 
little  fine  streams  of  water  from  all  sides  of 
the  cave,  making  it  as  wet  in  one  minute  as 
if  there  had  been  a  hard  rain.  Then,  as  the 
peasants  were  going  out  of  the  cave,  he 
touched  some  other  invisible  springs,  and 
played  jets  of  water  right  across  the  path 
they  were  walking  in.  The  water  seemed 
to  come  from  the  ground,  from  the  grass, 


122  BITS  OF  TALK. 

from  the  air,  from  everywhere.  But  he  took 
good  care  not  to  let  it  go  on  us  ;  the  peasants 
liked  the  fun  of  it,  and  only  laughed.  One 
old  woman  got  very  wet,  for  she  could  not  go 
so  fast  as  the  others ;  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  mind  it. 

Then  he  entered  another  gate ;  and  we 
followed  him  through  it  into  a  pretty  path, 
with  trees  and  flowers  on  the  right-hand 
side,  and  on  the  left-hand  a  narrow  brook 
of  water.  Its  sides  were  straight,  like  the 
sides  of  a  candle ;  but  the  water  ran  very 
fast.  On  one  side  of  this  brook  were  built 
five  little  stone  houses,  very  much  like  dog 
houses,  only  about  twice  as  large ;  and, 
instead  of  having  a  low  arched  door  in 
front,  the  whole  front  side  was  open,  so 
that  we  could  look  in. 

In  the  first  one  were  a  grindstone,  and 
two  figures  standing  by  it,  a  man  and  a 
woman.  The  man  held  a  knife,  and  the 


THE  WATEE-WOEKS  OF  HEILBEUN.    123 

woman  had  hold  of  the  handle  of  the  grind 
stone.  As  soon  as  the  water-master  touched 
a  spring,  the  woman  began  to  turn  the  grind 
stone,  and  the  man  began  to  sharpen  the 
knife ;  and  there  they  stood,  bending  and 
turning  and  sharpening  away  as  hard  as  if 
they  were  real  live  people.  The  brook  ran 
along  in  front,  as  quiet  and  innocent-looking 
as  if  it  hadn't  anything  in  the  world  to  do 
with  the  man  and  the  woman  at  the  grind 
stone  ;  and  all  the  while  it  was  a  tiny  stream, 
forced  up  from  the  brook  into  the  machinery 
of  their  legs  and  arms,  which  kept  them  at 
work. 

The  next  house  was  a  little  grist-mill, 
with  all  the  wheels  and  stones  and  beams  in 
perfect  imitation  of  a  real  one ;  and  the 
miller,  all  dusty  and  white,  standing  by  a 
hopper,  which  turned  swiftly  round  and 
round,  and  let  a  fine  stream  of  flour  run  out 


T24  BITS  OF  TALK. 

into  the  mouth  of  the  bag  below.     This  was 
the  prettiest  thing  of  all. 

The  next  thing  was  intended  to  be  very 
solemn  ;  but  it  was  only  funny.  There  was 
an  imitation  tree,  with  the  figure  of  a  man 
tied  to  it.  He  was  meant  to  look  like  one 
of  the  old  martyrs ;  but  he  did  not  look 
enough  like  a  real  man  to  look  like  a 
martyr.  Before  him  stood  another  figure 
of  a  man,  with  a  long  spear  in  his  hand. 
He  was  the  executioner.  When  the  machin 
ery  was  wound  up,  the  executioners  began 
to  stick  the  spear  into  the  martyr's  side ; 
once  in  so  many  seconds  the  spear  went  in, 
and  once  in  so  many  seconds  the  spear  came 
out,  and  all  this  time  the  martyr  never 
stirred.  This  was  so  very  different  from 
the  way  it  would  be  with  a  real  man  being 
killed,  that  it  made  us  laugh  more  and  more 
the  longer  we  looked  at  it.  But  the  poor 
men  and  women  looked  very  sober;  for 


THE  WATEE-WOEKS  OF  HEILBEUN.    125 

they  thought  it  must  be  the  representation 
of  some  old  saint  who  had  been  killed  by 
the  heathen,  and  I  am  afraid  they  thought 
we  were  wicked  people  to  laugh. 

Next  came  a  little  house  which  I  am  afraid 
I  cannot  describe  to  you  so  that  you  will 
seem  to  see  it,  it  was  so  very  strange.  In 
the  middle  was  a  little  lake  of  water ;  in  the 
lake,  an  island ;  on  the  island,  a  rock ;  fast 
ened  by  chains  to  the  rock,  was  the  figure  of 
a  woman.  Then  there  was  a  thing  meant 
to  be  a  sea-monster.  It  looked  a  little  like 
an  elephant,  a  little  like  a  grasshopper,  a 
little  like  a  turtle ;  but  on  the  whole  it  did 
not  look  like  anything  !  This  monster  came 
sailing  slowly  round  the  island;  and,  just 
as  it  got  opposite  the  woman,  and  looked  as 
if  it  were  going  to  bite  her,  a  door  flew 
open,  and  out  stepped  the  figure  of  a  man  in 
armor,  with  a  bright  brass  sword  in  his 
hand.  The  sword  gave  a  hack  at  the  head 


126  BITS  OF  TALK. 

of  the  monster ;  but  the  monster  sailed  on 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  came  round 
again  from  behind  the  tree.  Again  the  door 
flew  open,  the  man  in  armor  stepped  out, 
the  sword  hacked  at  the  monster's  head ; 
and  so  they  kept  on  sailing  round  and  hack 
ing,  and  sailing  round  and  hacking,  till  we 
all  laughed  so  we  could  hardly  stand.  The 
peasants  did  not  laugh  so  much,  for  they 
did  not  understand  it,  and  I  dare  say  they 
thought  it  must  be  a  representation  of  a 
saint  being  killed.  But  it  was  taken  from 
an  old  fable.  The  woman's  name  was  An 
dromeda ;  and  the  story  was  that  she  was 
bound  to  a  rock,  to  be  eaten  up  by  a  hor 
rible  monster,  and  a  great  hero  came  and 
killed  the  monster,  and  set  her  free. 

The  next  house  was  a  pretty  little  dairy. 
Pans  of.  milk  and  cream  setting  on  the 
shelves ;  pats  of  butter  in  piles  on  plates ; 
and  a  figure  of  a  man  churning  with  a  wooden 


THE  WATEE-WOEKS  OF  HEJLBEUN.    127 

churn,  which  made  a  spattering  noise  quite 
like  a  real  churn. 

This  was  the  last  of  the  little  stone  houses. 

Now  we  came  to  the  greatest  curiosity  of 
all :  a  large  chamber  hollowed  out  in  the 
rock,  and  two  great  folding-doors  on  the  side 
toward  the  path.  When  these  were  thrown 
open,  there  we  saw  in  the  centre  of  the 
chamber  a  tower  three  stories  high,  full  of 
windows,  and  with  galleries  running  around 
it.  This  was  meant,  we  thought,  for  a  sort 
of  palace  ;  many  men  and  women  were  look 
ing  out  of  the  windows,  and  standing  on  the 
galleries. 

Around  the  walls  of  the  chamber  were 
also  galleries,  with  pillars  at  the  front,  and 
divided  off  into  rooms.  In  each  room  there 
was  a  representation  of  some  trade,  or  some 
sort  of  store ;  and  men  and  women  at  work 
at  the  trade,  or  selling  goods  in  the  store. 
The  floor  of  the  chamber  was  crowded  with 


128  BITS  OF  TALK. 

figures  as  the  streets  of  a  city  are ;  in  fact, 
the  whole  thing  was  intended  to  represent  a 
town,  with  its  inhabitants  all  engaged  about 
their  business. 

The  water-master  let  us  look  at  it  for  some 
time  before  he  set  it  in  motion.  Then  he 
went  across  the  path  to  a  high  wooden  box, 
lifted  up  the  lid,  and  did  something  with  a 
key,  —  we  could  not  see  what;  but  in  one 
second  every  figure  in  the  town  began  to 
move.  The  people  in  the  windows  of  the 
tower  turned  their  heads  from  side  to  side, 
and  looked  as  if  they  were  talking  with  each 
other.  The  King  on  the  balcony  took  off 
his  hat  and  bowed  to  the  people  below. 
The  baker  began  to  knead  his  bread ;  the 
shoemaker  to  hammer  on  his  last;  the 
butcher  knocked  an  ox  on  the  head  to  kill 
it ;  the  ox  plunged  down  on  its  knees  as  if 
dead,  but  got  up  on  his  legs  in  a  half  second, 
all  ready  to  be  killed  again  when  the  time 


THE  WATER-WORKS  OF  HEILBEUN.    129 

cuine  round.  There  was  a  tavern,  with  two 
men  sitting  at  dinner,  and  one  of  them 
laughing  so  that  he  bent  back  almost  double. 
There  was  a  beautiful  little  store,  with  silks 
and  ribbons  and  stockings  and  laces,  all 
hanging  at  the  windows  and  in  the  door ; 
and  the  storekeeper  himself,  standing  on  the 
threshold,  stretching  out  his  hands  to  invite 
the  people  to  come  in.  There  was  an  old 
woman  being  wheeled  about  in  a  wheel 
barrow  ;  and  another  old  woman,  funniest  of 
all,  who  was  running  wildly  up  and  down  in 
the  crowd,  shaking  her  head  and  looking  as 
if  she  were  crazy.  Then  there  were  brick 
layers  going  up  ladders,  with  hods  full  of 
bricks  on  their  shoulders  ;  carpenters  upon  the 
roof  of  a  house,  hammering  at  the  shingles ; 
workmen  with  a  derrick,  lifting  up  stones. 
In  short,  I  might  as  well  tell  you  that  there 
is  nothing  that  you  have  ever  seen  workmen 
doing  in  the  streets  of  a  city  which  this  old 
9 


130  SITS  OF  TALE:. 

Marcus  Sitticus,  the  Archbishop,  had  not 
contrived  to  get  into  this  great  toy-house  of 
his.  While  these  things  were  going  on, 
there  was  also  music,  like  the  music  of  an 
organ,  coming  from  nobody  could  see  where  ; 
but  it  was  made  on  some  hidden  instrument, 
which  was  played  by  the  water.  Still  the 
little  brook  went  trotting  along  at  our  feet, 
as  unconcerned  as  if  it  had  no  share  in  all 
this  wonderful  machinery. 

The  peasants  were  quite  silent  while  they 
looked  at  this.  Over  the  other  things  they 
had  laughed  and  shouted ;  but  this  was  too 
mysterious  for  them.  I  think  they  were  a 
little  afraid  of  it.  I  thought  it  very  strange 
they  had  not  brought  their  little  children 
with  them  to  see  these  things.  There  was 
not  a  single  child  there. 

The  last  sight  of  all  was  the  most  beautiful. 
We  went  into  another  great  dark  cave  ;  and 
here,  on  a  round  stone  table,  lay  a  gilt 


THE  WA  TEE-  WORKS  OF  HEILBE  UN.    I  j  I 

crown.  Who  could  imagine  what  this  had 
to  do  with  water-works?  Presently  the 
crown  rose  slowly  up  in  the  air,  though 
nobody's  hands  touched  it.  The  stone  table 
had  holes  in  it,  and  through  these  holes  five 
streams  of  w&ter  were  being  forced  up,  and 
they  lifted  the  crown.  Higher  and  higher 
and  higher  it  went,  until  it  reached  nearly 
the  top  of  the  cave;  and  there  it  hovered, 
gently  rising  and  falling  on  the  top  of  the 
shining  fountain  of  water.  Then  the  foun 
tain  slowly  sank,  lowering  the  crown,  till  it 
lay  on  the  table  again.  Three  times  we 
saw  it  rise  and  fall,  and  each  time  it  looked 
more  beautiful  than  before.  The  peasants 
clapped  their  hands  with  delight,  and  so  did 
we.  Then  we  gave  the  good-natured  water- 
master  some  money,  and  walked  back  through 
the  shady  path,  past  the  little  town,  and 
the  mill,  and  the  dairy,  and  the  martyr, 
and  Andromeda.  They  were  all  as  still 


132  BITS  OF  TALK. 

as  midnight ;  and  the  little  figures  looked 
droller  than  ever,  standing  so  quietly.  Only 
the  crazy  old  woman,  in  the  streets  of  the 
little  town,  still  shook  her  head ;  and  we 
took  the  liberty  of  giving  her  a  tap  on 
the  cheek  as  we  passed. 

The  water-master  opened  the  gate  for  us, 
and  stood  smiling  and  bowing  his  red  face  as 
long  as  we  were  in  sight.  w  Good-by,  Kuhle- 
born,"  said  we ;  but  he  did  not  know  what 
we  meant ;  and  neither  will  you ,  unless  you 
ask  some  kind  friend  to  tell  you  the  beautiful 
German  story  of  Undine,  who  had  an  uncle 
called  Kuhleborn,  that  lived  in  the  sea  and 
ruled  all  the  brooks  and  rivers. 


MOKNING-GLOEY.  133 


MORNING-GLORY 

TT7ONDROUS  interlacement  I 

Holding  fast  to  threads  by  green  and 
silky  rings, 
With  the  dawn  it  spreads  its  white  and  purple 

wings ; 

Generous  in  its  bloom,  and  sheltering  while  it 
clings, 

Sturdy  morning-glory. 

Creeping  through  the  casement, 
Slanting  to  the  floor  in  dusty,  shining  beams, 
Dancing  on  the  door,  in  quick  fantastic  gleams 
Comes  the  new  day's  light,  and  pours  in  tideless 
streams, 

Golden  morning-glory. 

In  the  lowly  basement, 

Rocking  in  the  sun,  the  baby's  cradle  stands. 
Now  the  little  one  thrusts  out  his  rosy  hands ; 
Soon  Ins  eyes  will  open ;  then  in  all  the  lands 

No  such  morning-glory. 


134  BtTX  OF  TALK. 


CHILDREN'S  PREACHING  IN  THE  CHURCH 
OF  ARA  CGELI,  IN  ROME. 

A  RA  CGELI  is  the  name  of  one  of  the 
oldest  churches  in  Koine.  It  is  at  the 
top  of  a  high  hill,  and  to  get  to  it  you  have 
to  go  up  a  flight  of  more  than  a  hundred 
stone  steps.  These  steps  are  as  old  as 
Rome  is,  and  Julius  Caesar  himself  went  up 
them  many  a  time ;  for  in  his  day  there  was 
a  temple  to  Jupiter  where  the  church  of  Ara 
Coeli  now  stands,  and  all  the  Roman  em 
perors  and  generals  used  to  go  there  to  give 
thanks  to  Jupiter  whenever  they  had  a  vic 
tory.  In  this  church  the  little  Roman 
children  preach  sermons,  every  afternoon, 
from  Christmas  until  Twelfth  Night,  and 
once  I  heard  a  little  girl  preach  there.  As 
I  went  up  the  long  flight  of  stone  stairs,  I 


CHILDREN*  S  PEE  A  CHING  IN  E  ONE.    1 3  5 

passed  many  Eoman  men  and  women  sitting 
there,  with  all  sorts  of  odd  and  useless 
things  to  sell,  —  old  bits  of  money,  which 
they  pretended  were  ancient  relics,  and 
pictures  of  saints,  which  they  said  would 
keep  me  from  all  harm  if  I  would  only  buy 
them.  At  every  step,  somebody  on  my 
right  hand,  or  on  my  left,  screamed  out : 
"  O  Signora !  see  this  fine  picture  for  one 
bnioccho  "  (that  is  about  one  cent)  ;  or,  "O 
Signora !  here  is  good  luck  for  you  and  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Mary,  for  one  baioccho," 
till  I  thought  I  should  never  get  away  from 
them  all.  On  the  top  step  sat  a  poor 
old  beggar,  such  as  one  sees  every  day  in 
Rome,  holding  a  tin  box  with  a  hole  in  it, 
through  which  people  drop  money.  The 
beggars  do  not  speak  a  word,  but  they 
shake  this  box  furiously  as  you  pass  them, 
jingling  the  coin  to  let  you  hear  how  much 
money  other  people  have  given  them  ;  and  it 


136  BITS  OF  TALK. 

is  strange  how  apt  the  sound  of  this  money 
is  to  make  you  think  you  will  drop  in  a 
little  piece  more.  After  I  had  given  the 
beggar  a  copper,  I  went  into  the  church.  I 
remember  that  I  got  stuck  fast  in  the 
door,  and  a  good-natured  soldier  helped  me 
through.  This  was  not  because  I  was  too 
big  for  the  door  ;  but  all  the  Eoman  churches 
have  great  thick  leather  curtains  swung  in 
their  doors,  —  the  door  itself  stands  wide 
open;  but  this  great  curtain,  which  is  as 
heavy  as  a  mattress,  and  looks  more  like 
one  than  like  anything  else,  is  hung  from 
the  top  of  the  doorway,  like  a  second  door, 
and  it  takes  a  strong  push  to  shove  it  in  far 
enough  for  a  person  to  squeeze  through  the 
opening. 

Away  down  at  one  end  of  the  church  was 
a  large  square  table,  covered  with  a  red 
cloth ;  behind  the  table  was  a  little  step- 
ladder  leading  up  to  it ;  and  round  the  table 


CHILDREN'S  PREACHING  IN  ROME.    137 

had  already  gathered  a  large  crowd  of  peo 
ple.  Presently  a  man  came  out  of  a  side- 
door,  leading  a  little  girl,  who  did  not  look 
more  than  five  years  old.  He  helped  her  to 
climb  up  on  the  table,  and  then  he  sat  down 
on  the  top  step  of  the  ladder,  so  as  to  be 
near  her.  He  was  her  father,  and  he  was 
very  proud  of  her.  The  little  girl  ran  into 
the  middle  of  the  table,  and  made  a  funny 
bow,  something  like  the  bows  monkey-jacks 
make  when  you  pull  the  wires.  Then  she 
opened  her  little  bit  of  a  mouth,  and  out  of 
it  came  the  very  littlest  bit  of  a  voice  you 
ever  heard ;  it  sounded  as  fine  as  the  finest 
squeak  a  violin  can  make.  I  suppose  her 
voice  was  really  as  loud  as  other  little  girls' 
voices ;  but  it  could  not  make  any  noise  in 
that  great  stone  church. 

She  wore  a  black  and  red  striped  woollen 
gown,  made  just  like  an  old  woman's  gown 
—  long,  with  a  tight,  straight  waist,  and 


138  BITS  OF  TALK. 

tight,  long  sleeves ;  she  had  a  row  of  coral 
beads  around  her  neck,  and  her  hair  was 
braided  tip  tight,  and  wound  round  and 
round  in  a  small  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head  with  a  big  comb,  such  as  grown-up 
people  wear.  She  had  on  dark  leggins  and 
low  shoes ;  and  altogether  she  was  the 
drollest,  most  old-fashioned-looking  little 
body  I  ever  saw.  She  looked  as  if  she 
might  have  been  Cinderella's  little  old  fairy 
godmother,  only  she  was  not  quite  fine 
enough.  But  she  had  learned  her  sermon 
perfectly ;  she  knew  it  so  well,  and  said  it 
so  fast,  that  she  kept  getting  out  of  breath 
every  few  minutes,  and  had  to  stop  right  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  or  anywhere,  to 
draw  more  air  into  her  lungs. 

She  made  many  gestures  with  her  little 
arms,  and  sometimes  held  up  her  little  bit 
of  a  forefinger,  and  shook  it  with  a  threat 
ening  shake,  which  it  was  enough  to  make 


CHILDREN'S  PREACHING  IN  ROME.    139 

anybody  shout  out  loud  with  laughter  to 
see.  I  think  the  finger  might  have  been 
about  an  inch  and  a  half  long.  I  could  not 
understand  what  she  said ;  I  thought  this 
was  because  I  knew  so  little  Italian ;  but 
some  of  my  friends,  who  spoke  Italian  very 
well,  were  there,  and  they  could  not  under 
stand  any  better  than  I  did.  However,  we 
made  out  enough  to  know  that  she  was  tell 
ing  us  that  if  we  did  not  obey  Jesus  we 
should  all  go,  when  we  died,  to  a  dread 
ful  place,  where  there  were  flames  of  fire 
to  burn  us  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
years.  At  the  end  of  her  sermon  she  spread 
out  her  arms  as  wide  as  she  could,  and  said ; 
"Farewell,  my  dear  friends  !  I  hope  we  shall 
all  meet  in  heaven,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Holy  Virgin  Mary,  and  be  very  happy 
always."  Then  she  made  another  funny 
little  bow,  and  jumped  off  ihe  table.  Her 
father  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried 


140  SITS  OF  TALK. 

her  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  church,  to 
see  the  sacred  Bambino.  We  all  followed 
him,  and  crowded  up  around  her,  and  some 
of  the  ladies  gave  her  money.  The  father 
said  her  name  was  Isabella,  and  she  was  six 
years  old,  although  she  looked  so  young  and 
was  so  small.  The  nuns  in  a  convent  where 
she  went  to  school  had  taught  her  this  little 
sermon,  and  it  had  taken  her  three  whole 
weeks  to  learn  it.  He  was  so  proud  of  her, 
and  so  pleased  that  she  had  preached  her 
sermon  so  well,  that  he  kept  kissing  her 
over  and  over,  and  smiling  at  all  of  us,  as  if 
he  had  known  us  all  our  lives.  He  was  only 
a  poor  workingman,  and  I  suppose  it  was 
the  greatest  pleasure  of  his  whole  year  to 
have  this  little  girl  of  his  preach  a  sermon  in 
Ara  Coeli,  and  be  praised  and  admired  by 
the  foreign  gentlemen  and  ladies. 

But  now  I  must  tell  you  what  is  the  sacred 
Bambino,  which  we  all  went  to  look  at  after 


CHILDREN'S  PREACHING  IN  ROME.    141 

the  sermon  was  ended.  w  Bambino  "  is  Italian 
for  "  little  baby  ;  "  and  the  sacred  Bambino  is 
a  doll  which  is  dressed  to  represent  Jesus 
Christ  when  he  was  a  little  baby.  It  is  kept 
either  sitting  or  lying  in  the  lap  of  a  large 
wax  figure  of  a  woman  who  is  called  the 
Virgin  Mary,  Christ's  mother.  Every  Roman 
Catholic  Church  has  these  figures,  and  I 
presume  you  may  have  seen  them  in  America. 
But  no  church  in  Rome  has  so  fine  a  Bam 
bino  as  this  in  Ara  Cceli,  nor  one  of  which 
such  wonderful  stories  are  told.  The  monks 
say  that  it  was  carved  out  of  wood  which 
grew  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  that 
St.  Luke  himself  painted  its  face.  They 
have  made  the  Romans  believe  that  it  has  a 
miraculous  power  to  cure  diseases,  and  it 
is  often  sent  for  where  people  are  very  ill. 
When  it  is  being  carried  through  the  streets, 
very  good  Roman  Catholics  go  down  on 
their  knees,  or,  at  least,  make  the  sign 


142  BITS  OF  TALK. 

of  the  cross.  Sometimes  they  run  along 
after  the  carriage,  and  try  to  touch  the 
wheels,  crying  out :  "  O  most  blessed  Bam 
bino  !  keep  us  well ;  O  holy  Bambino  !  give 
us  thy  blessing." 

Twenty  years  ago  there  was  a  great  revolu 
tion  in  Eome,  and  some  of  the  people  who 
did  not  like  the  Pope  and  his  cardinals, 
burnt  up  the  fine  red  coaches  which  the 
cardinals  rode  in.  They  were  just  going 
to  burn  the  Pope's,  too ;  but  somebody 
proposed  that,  instead  of  burning  it,  they 
should  give  it  to  the  sacred  Bambino  of  Ara 
Cceli. 

This  pleased  the  people  very  much;  for 
although  they  hated  to  be  ruled  over  and 
oppressed  by  the  cardinals,  they  were  very 
good  Eoman  Catholics  at  heart.  So  they 
drew  the  coach  up  to  Ara  Cceli,  and  the 
monks  put  the  Bambino  in  it,  and  drove 
through  all  the  chief  streets  of  Home,  to  let 


CHILDREN'S  PREACHING  IN  ROME.    143 

everybody  know  what  had  been  done  with 
the  Pope's  carriage. 

Think  of  a  wooden  doll,  about  as  big  as  a 
baby  three  months  old,  dressed  all  in  laces 
and  tinsel  and  diamonds,  with  a  gold  crown 
of  most  precious  jewels  on  its  head,  being 
taken  out  to  ride  in  a  coach,  and  carried  into 
the  rooms  of  sick  people,  that  they  might  be 
cured  by  looking  at  it ! 

But  the  oddest  story  of  the  Bambino  of 
Ara  Cceli  is  about  its  having  once  been 
carried  off.  The  monks  tell  this  story  as  if 
they  believed  it.  Perhaps  some  of  them  do, 
though  it  is  hard  enough  to  see  how  they  can. 
They  say  that  many  years  ago,  there  was  an 
English  woman  in  Rome  who  fell  in  love 
with  the  Bambino,  and  used  to  come  every 
day  to  the  church,  and  sit  for  long  hours 
looking1  at  it.  At  last,  she  wanted  so  much 
to  have  it  for  her  own,  that  she  had  another 
doll  made  exactly  like  it,  and  took  that  to 


144  BITS  OF 

the  church,  and  watched  and  waited  for  an 
opportunity,  when  no  one  was  near,  to  change 
them,  —  putting  her  common  doll  into  the 
lap  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  carrying  off  the 
sacred  Bambino  for  herself.  All  the  rest  of 
that  day,  nobody  noticed  the  change ;  but  at 
midnight  all  the  bells  of  the  church  and  of  the 
convent  adjoining  it  began  to  ring.  The 
monks  were  frightened  enough  —  as  well 
they  might  be  —  to  find  all  their  bells  ring 
ing  furiously,  and  no  human  hands  touching 
the  ropes.  They  ran  into  the  church,  and 
opened  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  stone 
steps,  and  there  stood  the  sacred  Bambino, 
waiting  to  be  let  in  !  What  became  of  the 
English  woman,  the  story  does  not  say ;  but 
that  is  the  true  story,  as  many  a  little 
Roman  boy  and  girl  would  tell  you,  of  the 
Sacred  Bambino  of  Ara  Creli. 


"  THE  PENNY  YE  MEANT  TO  GFE."    145 

"THE  PENNY  YE  MEANT  TO  GI'E." 

'TVHERE'S  a  funny  tale  of  a  stingy  man, 

Who  was  none  too  good,  but  might  have 

been  worse, 

Who  went  to  his  church  on  a  Sunday  night, 
And  carried  along  his  well-filled  purse. 

When  the  sexton  came  with  his  begging-plate, 
The  church  was  but  dim  with  the  candle's  light  • 

The  stingy  man  fumbled  all  through  his  purse, 
And  chose  a  coin  by  touch  and  not  sight. 

It's  an  odd  thing  now  that  guineas  should  be 
So  like  unto  pennies  in  shape  and  size. 

"  I'll  give  a  penny,"  the  stingy  man  said; 
"  The  poor  must  not  gifts  of  pennies  despise." 

The  penny  fell  down  with  a  clatter  and  ring  I 
And  back  in  his  seat  leaned  the  stingy  man. 

"  The  world  is  so  full  of  the  poor,"  he  thought, 
"  I  can't  help  them  all,  —  I  give  what  I  can." 

Ha,  ha !  how  the  sexton  smiled,  to  be  sure, 
To  see  the  gold  guinea  fall  in  his  plate  I 

Ha,  ha !  how  the  stingy  man's  heart  was  wrung, 
Perceiving  his  blunder,  but  just  too  late  I 
10 


146  BITS  OF  TALK. 

" No  matter,"  he  said;  " in  the  Lord's  account 
That  guinea  of  gold  is  set  down  to  me. 

They  lend  to  Him  who  give  to  the  poor ; 
It  will  not  so  bad  an  investment  be." 

"  Na,  na,  mon,"  the  chuckling  sexton  cried  out, 
"  The  Lord  is  na  cheated  —  He  kens  thee  well; 

He  knew  it  was  only  by  accident 
That  out  o'  thy  fingers  the  guinea  fell  I 

"  He  keeps  an  account,  na  doubt,  for  the  puir; 

But  in  that  account  He'll  set  down  to  thee 
Na  mair  o'  that  golden  guinea,  my  mon, 

Than  the  one  bare  penny  ye  meant  to  gi'e  I " 

There's  a  comfort,  too,  in  the  little  tale  — 

A  serious  side  as  well  as  a  joke ; 
A  comfort  for  all  the  generous  poor, 

In  the  comical  words  the  sexton  spoke. 

A  comfort  to  think  that  the  good  Lord  knows 
How  generous  we  really  desire  to  be, 

And  will  give  us  credit  in  His  account, 
For  all  the  pennies  we  long  "  to  gi'e." 


A  PARABLE.  147 


A    PARABLE. 

there  was  born  a  man  with  a  great 
genius  for  painting  and  sculpture.  It 
was  not  in  this  world  that  he  was  born, 
but  in  a  world  very  much  like  this  in  some 
respects,  and  very  different  in  others.  The 
world  in  which  this  great  genius  was  born 
was  governed  by  a  beneficent  and  wise  Ruler, 
who  had  such  wisdom,  and  such  power,  that 
he  decided,  before  each  being  was  born,  for 
what  purpose  he  would  best  be  fitted  in  life ; 
he  then  put  him  in  the  place  best  suited 
to  the  work  he  was  to  do ;  and  he  gave  into 
his  hands  a  set  of  instruments  to  do  the 
work  with. 

There  was  one  peculiarity  about  these 
instruments  :  they  could  never  be  replaced  ; 
on  this  point  this  great  and  wise  Ruler  was 


14$  SITS  OF  TALK. 

inexorable.  He  said  to  every  being  who 
was  born  into  his  realms : 

"Here  is  your  set  of  instruments  to  work 
with ;  if  you  take  good  care  of  them,  they 
will  last  a  lifetime;  if  you  let  them  get 
rusty  or  broken,  you  can  perhaps  have  them 
brightened  up  a  little,  or  mended ;  but  they 
will  never  be  as  good  as  new,  and  you 
can  never  have  another  set.  Now  you  see 
how  important  it  is  that  you  keep  them 
always  in  good  order." 

This  man  of  whom  I  speak  had  a  com 
plete  set  of  all  the  tools  necessary  for  a 
sculptor's  work,  and  also  a  complete  set  of 
painters'  brushes  and  colors.  He  was  a 
wonderful  man ;  for  he  could  make  very 
beautiful  statues,  and  he  could  also  paint 
very  beautiful  pictures.  He  became,  while 
he  was  very  young,  famous  ;  and  everybody 
wanted  something  that  he  had  carved  or 
painted. 


A  PAEABLE.  149 

Now  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  that 
he  did  not  believe  what  the  good  Kuler 
told  him  about  his  set  of  instruments,  or 
whether  he  did  not  care  to  keep  on  working 
any  longer ;  but  this  is  what  happened :  he 
grew  very  careless  about  his  brushes,  and  let 
his  tools  lie  out  over  night  where  it  was 
damp.  He  left  some  of  his  brushes  full 
of  paint  for  weeks,  and  the  paint  dried  in, 
so  that  when  at  last  he  tried  to  wash  it  out, 
out  came  the  bristles  by  dozens,  and  the 
brushes  were  entirely  ruined.  The  damp 
ness  of  the  night  air  rusted  the  edges  of 
some  of  his  very  finest  tools,  and  the  things 
which  he  had  to  use  to  clean  off  the  rust 
were  so  powerful,  that  they  ate  into  the 
fine  metal  of  the  tools,  and  left  the  edges  so 
uneven  that  they  would  no  longer  make 
fine  strokes. 

However,  he  kept  on  painting,  and  mak 
ing  statues,  and  doing  the  best  he  could 


150  BITS  OF  TALK. 

with,  the  few  and  imperfect  tools  he  had 
left.  But  people  began  to  say,  "What  is 
the  matter  with  this  man's  pictures?  and 
what  is  the  matter  with  his  statues?  He 
does  not  do  half  as  good  work  as  he  used 
to!" 

Then  he  was  very  angry,  and  said  the 
people  were  only  envious  and  malicious ; 
that  he  was  the  same  he  always  had  been  ; 
nnd  his  pictures  and  statues  were  as  good  as 
ever.  But  he  could  not  make  anybody 
else  think  so.  They  all  knew  better. 

One  day  the  Euler  sent  for  him,  and  said 
to  him  : 

"Now  you  have  reached  th6  prime  of 
your  life ;  it  is  time  that  you  should  do 
some  really  great  work.  I  want  a  grand 
statue  made  for  the  gate-way  of  one  of 
my  cities.  Here  is  the  design.  Take  it 
home  and  study  it,  and  see  if  you  can 
undertake  to  execute  it." 


A  PARABLE.  151 

As  soon  as  the  poor  sculptor  studied  the 
design,  his  heart  sank  within  him ;  there 
were  several  parts  of  it  which  required  the 
finest  workmanship  of  one  of  his  most  delicate 
instruments ;  that  instrument  was  entirely 
ruined  by  rust ;  the  edge  was  all  eaten 
away  in  notches.  In  vain  he  tried  all 
possible  devices  to  bring  it  again  to  a  fine, 
sharp  edge.  Nothing  could  be  done  with  it. 
The  most  experienced  workmen  shook  their 
heads  as  soon  as  they  saw  it,  and  said : 

"No,  no,  sir!  it  is  too  late;  if  you  had 
brought  it  to  us  at  first,  we  might  possibly 
have  made  it  sharp  enough  for  you  to  use  a 
little  while  with  great  care ;  but  it  is  past 
help  now."  Then  he  ran  frantically  around 
the  country,  trying  to  borrow  a  similar  instru 
ment  from  some  one.  But  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  peculiarities  about  these  sets  of 
instruments  given  by  the  Ruler  of  this  world 
I  am  speaking  of  was,  that  they  were  of  no 


152  SITS  OF  TALK. 

use  at  all  in  the  hands  of  anybody  except 
the  one  to  whom  the  Ruler  had  given  them. 
Several  of  the  beulptor's  friends  were  so 
sorry  for  him,  that  they  offered  him  their 
instruments  in  place  of  his  own ;  but  he 
tried  in  vain  to  use  them.  They  were  not 
fitted  to  his  hand ;  he  could  not  make  the 
kind  of  stroke  he  wanted  to  make  with 
them.  So  he  went  sadly  back  to  the  Ruler, 
and  said  : 

"Oh,  sir,  I  am  most  unhappy  !  I  cannot 
execute  this  beautiful  design  for  your  statue." 

"  But  why  cannot  you  execute  it  ? "  said 
the  Ruler. 

"Alas,  sir  !"  replied  the  unfortunate  man, 
"by  some  sad  accident  one  of  my  finest 
tools  was  so  rusted  that  it  cannot  be  re 
stored.  Without  that  tool,  it  is  impossible 
to  make  this  statue. "t 

Then  the  Ruler  looked  very  severely  at  him, 
and  said : 


A  PARABLE.  153 

"Oh,  Sculptor!  accidents  very  seldom 
happen  to  the  wise  and  careful.  But  you 
are  also  a  painter,  I  believe.  Perhaps  you 
can  paint  the  picture  I  wish  to  have  painted 
immediately,  for  my  new  palace.  Here  is 
the  drawing  of  it.  Go  home  and  study  this. 
This  also  will  be  an  opportunity  worthy  of 
your  genius." 

The  poor  fellow  was  not  much  comforted 
by  this  ;  for  he  remembered  that  he  had  not 
even  looked  at  his  brushes  for  a  long  time. 
However,  he  took  the  sketch,  thanked  the 
Ruler,  and  withdrew. 

It  proved  to  be  the  same  with  the  sketch 
for  the  picture,  as  it  had  been  with  the 
design  for  the  statue ;  it  required  the  finest 
workmanship  in  parts  of  it,  and  the  brushes 
which  were  needed  for  this  had  been  long 
ago  destroyed  ;  only  their  handles  remained. 
How  did  the  painter  regret  his  folly  as  he 
picked  up  the  old  defaced  handles  from  the 


154  BITS  OF  TALK. 

floor,  and  looked  at  them  hopelessly  !  Again 
he  went  to  the  Ruler,  and,  with  still  greater 
embarrassment  than  before,  acknowledged 
that  he  was  unable  to  paint  the  picture, 
because  he  had  not  the  proper  brushes. 
This  time  the  Ruler  looked  at  him  with 
terrible  severity,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  of 
the  sternest  displeasure. 

"What,  then,  do  you  expect  to  do,  sir,  for 
the  rest  of  your  life,  if  your  instruments  are 
in  such  a  condition  ?  " 

"Alas,  sir,  I  do  not  know !"  replied  the 
poor  man,  covered  with  confusion. 

"You  deserve  to  starve,"  said  the  Ruler; 
and  ordered  the  servants  to  show  him  out  of 
the  palace. 

After  this,  matters  went  from  bad  to  worse 
with  the  painter ;  every  few  days,  some  one 
of  his  instruments  broke  under  his  hand ; 
they  had  been  so  poorly  taken  care  of,  that 
they  did  not  last  half  as  long  as  they  were 


A  P ARABLE.  155 

meant  to.  His  work  grew  poorer  and  poorer, 
until  he  fell  so  low  that  he  was  forced  to  eke 
ou1;  a  miserable  living  by  painting  the  walls 
of  the  commonest  houses,  and  making  the 
coarsest  kind  of  water-jars  out  of  clay. 
Finally  his  last  instrument  failed  him ;  he 
had  nothing  left  to  work  with ;  and  as  he 
had  for  many  years  done  only  very  coarse 
and  cheap  work,  and  had  not  been  able  to 
lay  up  any  money,  he  was  driven  to  beg  his 
food  from  door  to  door,  and  finally  died  of 
hunger. 

This  is  the  end  of  the  Parable.  Next 
comes  the  Moral.  Now,  please  don't  skip 
all  the  rest,  because  it  is  called  "Moral."  It 
will  not  be  very  long.  I  wish  I  had  called 
my  story  a  Conundrum  instead  of  a  Parable, 
and  then  the  moral  would  have  been  the 
answer.  How  that  would  have  puzzled  you 
all,  —  a  conundrum  so  many  pages  long! 
And  I  wonder  how  many  of  you  would  have 


156  BITS  OF  TALK. 

guessed  the  true  answer?  How  many  of 
you  would  have  thought  enough  about  your 
own  bodies,  to  have  seen  that  they  were 
only  sets  of  instruments  given  to  you  to 
work  with  ?  The  Parable  is  a  truer  one  than 
you  think,  at  first ;  but  the  longer  you  think, 
the  more  you  will  see  how  true  it  is.  Are 
we  not  each  of  us  born  into  the  world  pro 
vided  with  one  body,  and  only  one,  which 
must  last  us  as  long  as  we  live  in  this  world  ? 
Is  it  not  by  means  of  this  body  that  we  feel, 
learn,  and  accomplish  everything?  Is  it  not 
a  most  wonderful  and  beautiful  set  of  instru 
ments?  Can  we  ever  replace  any  one  of 
them  ?  Can  we  ever  have  any  one  of  them 
made  as  good  as  new,  after  it  has  once  been 
seriously  out  of  order?  In  one  respect  the 
Parable  is  not  a  true  one,  for  the  Parable 
tells  the  story  of  a  man  wrhose  set  of  instru 
ments  was  adapted  to  only  two  uses,  —  to 
sculpture  and  to  painting.  But  it  would  not 


A  PAEABLE.  157 

l»e  easy  to  count  up  all  the  things  which 
human  beings  can  do  by  help  of  these  won 
derful  bodies  in  which  they  live.  Think,  for 
a  moment,  of  all  the  things  you  do  in  any 
one  day  :  all  the  breathing,  eating,  drinking, 
and  running,  of  all  the  thinking,  speaking, 
feeling,  learning,  you  do  in  any  one  day. 
Now  if  any  one  of  the  instruments  is  seri 
ously  out  of  order,  you  cannot  do  one  of 
these  things  so  well  as  you  know  how  to  do 
it. 

When  any  one  of  the  instruments  is  very 
seriously  out  of  order,  there  is  always  pain. 
If  the  pain  is  severe,  you  can't  think  of 
anything  else  while  it  lasts ;  all  your  other 
instruments  are  of  no  use  to  you,  just  be 
cause  of  the  pain  in  that  one  which  is  out 
of  order.  If  the  pain  and  the  disordered 
condition  last  a  great  while,  the  instrument 
is  so  injured  that  it  is  never  again  so  strong 
en  rt  was  in  the  beginning.  All  the  doctors 


158  BITS  OF  TALK. 

in  the  world  cannot  make  it  so.  Then  you 
begin  to  be  what  people  call  an  invalid ; 
that  is,  a  person  who  doesn't  have  the  full 
use  of  any  one  part  of  his  body ;  who  is 
never  exactly  comfortable  himself,  and  who 
is  likely  to  make  everybody  about  him  more 
or  less  uncomfortable. 

I  do  not  know  anything  in  this  world  half 
so  strange  as  the  way  in  which  people 
neglect  their  bodies :  that  is,  their  set  of 
instruments ;  their  one  set  of  instruments 
which  they  can  never  replace,  and  can  do 
very  little  towards  mending.  When  it  is 
too  late,  when  the  instruments  are  hope 
lessly  out  of  order,  then  they  do  not  neglect 
them  any  longer;  then  they  run  about 
frantically,  as  the  poor  sculptor  did,  trying 
to  find  some  one  to  help  him ;  and  this  is 
one  of  the  saddest  sights  in  the  world ,  —  a 
man  or  a  woman  running  from  one  climate 
to  another  climat?,  and  from  one  doctor  to 


A  PAEABLE.  159 

another  doctor,  trying  to  cure  or  patch  up  a 
body  that  is  out  of  order. 

Now,  perhaps  you  will  say  this  is  a 
dismal  and  unnecessary  sermon  to  preach 
to  young  people ;  they  have  their  fathers 
and  mothers  to  take  care  of  them;  they 
don't  take  care  of  themselves.  Very  true ; 
but  fathers  and  mothers  cannot  be  always 
with  their  children ;  fathers  and  mothers 
cannot  always  make  their  children  remember 
and  obey  their  directions.  More  than  all,  it 
is  very  hard  to  make  children  realize  that 
it  is  of  any  great  importance  that  they  should 
keep  all  the  laws  of  health.  I  know  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  when  people  said  to  me  you 
must  not  do  thus  and  thus,  for  if  }^ou  do  you 
will  take  cold,  I  used  to  think,  "Who  cares 
for  a  little  cold  ?  Supposing  I  do  catch  one  ! " 
and  when  I  was  shut  up  in  the  house  for 
several  days  with  a  bad  sore  throat,  and 
suffered  horrible  pain,  I  never  reproached 


l6o  BITS  OF  TALK. 

myself.  1  thought  that  sore  throats  must 
come  now  and  then,  whether  or  no,  and  that 
I  must  take  my  turn.  But  now  I  have 
learned,  that  if  no  law  of  health  were  ever 
broken  we  need  never  have  a  day's  illness, 
might  grow  old  in  entire  freedom  from  suf 
fering,  and  gradually  fall  asleep  at  last, 
instead  of  dying  terrible  deaths  from  disease  ; 
and  I  am  all  the  while  wishing  that  I  had 
known  it  when  I  was  young.  If  I  had 
known  it,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  have 
done :  I  would  have  just  tried  the  experi 
ment,  at  any  rate,  of  never  doing  a  single 
thing  which  could,  by  any  possibility,  get 
any  one  of  the  instruments  of  my  body  out 
of  order.  I  wish  I  could  see  some  boy  or 
girl  try  it,  yet :  never  to  sit  up  late  at 
night ;  never  to  have  a  close,  bad  air  in  the 
room  ;  never  to  sit  with  wet  feet ;  never  to 
wet  them,  if  it  were  possible  to  help  it; 
never  to  go  out  in  the  cold  weather  without 


A  PARABLE.  l6l 

oeing  properly  wrapped  up ;  never  to  go 
out  of  a  hot  room  into  the  cold  out-door  air, 
without  throwing  some  extra  wrap  on ;  never 
to  eat  or  drink  an  unwholesome  thing  ;  never 
to  touch  tea,  or  coffee,  or  candy,  or  pie 
crust  ;  never  to  let  a  day  pass  without  at 
least  two  good  hours  of  exercise  in  the  open 
air ;  never  to  read  a  word  by  twilight,  or  in 
the  cars ;  never  to  let  the  sun  be  shut  out 
of  rooms.  This  is  a  pretty  long  list  of 
w  nevers,"  but  "never"  is  the  only  word  that 
conquers.  "Once  in  a  while,"  is  the  very 
watchword  of  temptation  and  defeat.  I  do 
believe  that  the  "  once  in  a  while "  things 
have  ruined  more  bodies,  and  more  souls, 
too,  than  all  the  other  things  put  together. 
Moreover,  the  "  never  "  way  is  easy,  and  the 
"  once  in  a  while  "  way  is  hard.  After  you 
have  once  made  up  your  mind  "  never  "  to 
do  a  certain  thing,  that  is  the  end  of  it,  if 
you  are  a  sensible  person.  But  if  you  only 
11 


1 62  BITS  OF  TALK. 

say  "  this  is  a  bad  habit,"  or  "  this  is  a  dan 
gerous  indulgence,  I  will  be  a  little  on  my 
guard,  and  not  do  it  too  often,"  you  have 
put  yourself  in  the  most  uncomfortable  of  all 
positions  ;  the  temptation  will  knock  at  your 
door  twenty  times  a-day,  and  you  will  have 
to  be  fighting  the  same  old  battles  over  and 
over  again,  as  long  as  you  live.  This  is 
especially  true  in  regard  to  the  matter  of 
which  I  have  been  speaking  to  you, — the 
care  of  the  body.  When  you  have  once  laid 
down  to  yourself  the  laws  you  mean  to  keep, 
the  things  you  will  always  do,  and  the 
things  you  will  "never"  do,  then  your  life 
arranges  itself  in  a  system  at  once ;  and  you 
are  not  interrupted  and  hindered  as  the  un 
decided  people  are,  by  wondering  what  is 
best,  or  safe,  or  wholesome,  or  too  unwhole 
some,  at  different  times. 

Don't  think  it  would  be  a  sort  of  slavery 
to  give  up  so  much  for  sake  of  keeping  your 


A  PARABLE.  163 

body  in  order.  It  is  the  only  real  freedom, 
though  at  first  it  does  not  look  so  much  like 
freedom  as  the  other  way.  It  is  the  sort  of 
freedom  of  which  some  poet  sung  once.  I 
never  knew  who  he  was.  I  heard  the  lines 
only  once,  and  have  forgotten  all  except  the 
last  three,  but  I  think  of  those  every  day. 
He  was  speaking  of  the  true  freedom  which 
there  is  in  keeping  the  laws  of  nature,  and 
he  said  it  was  like  the  freedom  of  the  true 
poet,  who  — 

"  Always  sings 

In  strictest  bonds  of  rhyme  and  rule, 
And  finds  in  them  not  bonds,  but  wings." 

I  think  the  difference  between  a  person  whc 
has  kept  all  the  laws  of  health,  and  thereby 
has  a  good  strong  sound  body,  that  can 
carry  him  wherever  he  wants  to  go,  and  do 
whatever  he  wants  to  do,  and  a  person  who 
has  let  his  body  get  all  out  of  order  so  that 


BITS  OF  TALK. 

he  has  to  lie  in  bed  half  his  time  and  suffer, 
is  quite  as  great  a  difference  as  there  is 
between  a  creature  with  wings  and  a  crea 
ture  without  wings  I 

Don't  you  ? 

And  this  is  the  end  of  the  Moral. 


MY  BROKEN-WINGED  BIRD.  16$ 


MY  BROKEN-WINGED  BIRD. 

Tj^OR  days  I  have  been  cherishing 

A  little  bird  with  broken  wing. 
I  love  it  in  my  heart  of  hearts ; 
To  win  its  love  I  try  all  arts ; 
I  call  it  by  each  sweet  pet  name 
That  I  can  think,  its  fear  to  tame. 
My  room  is  still  and  bright  and  warm ; 
The  little  thing  is  safe  from  harm. 
If  I  had  left  it  where  it  lay 
Fluttering  in  the  wintry  day, 
No  mate  remaining  by  its  side, 
Before  nightfall  it  must  have  died. 
It  sips  the  drink,  it  eats  the  food ; 
Plenty  of  both,  all  sweet  and  good. 
But  alJ  the  while  my  hand  it  flies, 
Looks  up  at  me  with  piteous  eyes ; 
From  morn  till  night,  restless  and  swift, 
Runs  to  and  fro,  and  tries  to  lift 
Itself  upon  its  broken  wing, 
And  through  the  window-pane  to  spring, 


1 66  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Poor  little  bird !    Myself  I  see 

From  morn  till  night  in  watching  thee. 

A  Power  I  cannot  understand 

Is  sheltering  me  with  loving  hand ; 

It  calls  me  by  the  dearest  name, 

My  love  to  win,  my  fear  to  tame ; 

Each  day  my  daily  food  provides, 

And  night  and  day  from  danger  hides 

Me  safe :  the  food,  the  warmth,  I  take, 

Yet  all  the  while  ungrateful  make 

Restless  and  piteous  complaints, 

And  strive  to  break  the  kind  restraints. 

Dear  little  bird,  'twill  not  be  long; 
Each  day  thy  wing  is  growing  strong; 
"When  it  is  healed,  and  thou  canst  fly, 
My  windows  will  be  opened  high; 
And  I  shall  watch  with  loving  eyes 
To  see  thee  soar  in  sunn)'  skies. 
I,  too,  some  day,  on  healed  wing 
Set  free,  shall  soar  aloft  and  sing, 
And  in  my  joy  no  memory  find 
Of  prison-walls  I  left  behind. 


CHEEEY  PEOPLE.  167 


CHEERY  PEOPLE. 

,  the  comfort  of  them  !  There  is  but 
one  thing  like  them,  — that  is  sunshine. 
It  is  the  fashion  to  state  the  comparison  the 
other  end  foremost  —  i.  e.  to  flatter  the 
cheery  people  by  comparing  them  to  the 
sun.  I  think  it  is  the  best  way  of  praising 
the  sunshine,  to  say  that  it  is  almost  as 
bright  and  inspiring  as  the  presence  of  cheery 
people. 

That  the  cheery  people  are  brighter  and 
better  even  than  sunshine  is  very  easily 
proved ;  for  who  has  not  seen  a  cheery 
person  make  a  room  and  a  day  bright  in 
spite  of  the  sun's  not  shining  at  all,  —  in 
spite  of  clouds  and  rain  and  cold  all  doing 
their  very  best  to  make  it  dismal?  There- 


1 68  BITS  OF  TALK. 

fore  I  say,  the  fair  way  is  to  compare  the 
sun  to  cheery  people,  and  not  cheery  people 
to  the  sun.  However,  whichever  way  we 
state  the  comparison,  it  is  a  true  and  good 
one ;  and  neither  the  cheery  people  nor  the 
sun  need  take  offence.  In  fact,  I  believe 
they  will  always  be  such  good  friends,  and 
work  so  steadily  together  for  the  same  ends, 
that  there  is  no  danger  of  cither's  grudging 
the  other  the  credit  of  what  has  been  done. 
The  more  you  think  of  it,  the  more  you  see 
how  wonderfully  alike  the  two  are  in  their 
operation  on  the  world.  The  sun  on  the 
fields  makes  things  grow  —  fruits  and  flowers 
and  grains ;  the  cheery  person  in  the  house 
makes  everybody  do  his  best,  —  makes  the 
one  who  can  sing  feel  like  singing,  and  the 
one  who  has  an  ugly,  hard  job  of  work  to 
do,  feel  like  shouldering  it  bravely  and 
having  it  over  with.  And  the  music  and 
mirth  and  work  in  the  house,  are  they  not 


CHEER  Y  PEOPLE.  1 69 

like  the  flowers  and  fruits  and  grains  in  the 

field? 

The  sun  makes  everybody  glad.  Even 
the  animals  run  and  leap,  and  seem  more 
joyous  when  it  shines  out;  and  no  human 
being  can  be  so  gross-grained,  or  so  ill,  that 
he  does  not  brighten  up  a  little  when  a  great 
broad,  warm  sunbeam  streams  over  him  and 
plays  on  his  face.  It  is  just  so  with  a  cheery 
person.  His  simple  presence  makes  even 
animals  happier.  Dogs  know  the  difference 
between  him  and  a  surly  man.  When  he 
pats  them  on  the  head  and  speaks  to  them, 
they  jump  and  gambol  about  him  just  as  they 
do  in  the  sunshine.  And  when  he  comes 
into  the  room  where  people  are  ill,  or  out  of 
sorts,  or  dull  and  moping,  they  brighten  up, 
spite  of  themselves,  just  as  they  do  when  a 
sudden  sunbeam  pours  in,  —  only  more  so; 
for  we  often  see  people  so  ill  they  do  not 
care  whether  the  sun  shines  or  not,  or  so 


1 70  SITS  OF  TALK. 

cross  that  they  do  not  even  see  whether  the 
sun  shines  or  not ;  but  I  have  never  yet  seen 
anybody  so  cross  or  so  ill  that  the  voice  and 
face  of  a  cheery  person  would  not  make 
them  brighten  up  a  little. 

If  there  were  only  a  sure  and  certain 
recipe  for  making  a  cheery  person,  how 
glad  we  would  all  be  to  try  it !  How  thank 
ful  we  would  all  be  to  do  good  like  sunshine  ! 
To  cheer  everybody  up,  and  help  everybody 
along! — to  have  everybody's  face  brighten 
the  minute  we  came  in  sight !  Why,  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  cannot  be  in  this  life 
any  pleasure  half  so  great  as  this  would  be. 
If  we  looked  at  life  only  from  a  selfish  point 
of  view,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  be  a 
cheery  person,  merely  because  it  would  be 
such  a  satisfaction  to  have  everybody  so  glad 
to  live  with  us,  to  see  us,  even  to  meet  us 
on  the  street. 

People  who  have  done  things  which  hav« 


CHEER  T  PEOPLE.  1 7 1 

rmade  them  famous,  such  as  winning  great 
battles  or  filling  high  offices,  often  have 
what  are  called  "ovations."  Hundreds  of 
people  get  together  and  make  a  procession, 
perhaps,  or  go  into  a  great  hall  and  make 
speeches,  all  to  show  that  they  recognize 
what  the  great  man  has  done.  After  he 
is  dead,  they  build  a  stone  monument  to  him, 
perhaps,  and  celebrate  his  birthday  for  a  few 
years.  Men  work  very  hard  sometimes  for 
a  whole  lifetime  to  earn  a  few  things  of  this 
sort.  But  how  much  greater  a  thing  it 
would  be  for  a  man  to  have  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  his  own  town  know 
and  love  his  face  because  it  was  full  of 
kindly  good  cheer !  Such  a  man  has  a 
perpetual  "ovation,"  year  in  and  year  out, 
whenever  he  walks  on  the  street,  when 
ever  he  enters  a  friend's  house. 

"I  jist  likes  to  let  her  in  at  the  door," 
said  an  Irish  servant  one  day,  of  a  woman  I 


i;2  BITS  OF  TALE.. 

know  whose  face  was  always  cheery  and 
bright ;  "the  face  of  her  does  one  good, 
shure ! " 

I  said  if  there  were  only  a  recipe  —  a 
sure  and  certain  recipe  — for  making  a  cheery 
person,  we  would  all  be  glad  to  try  it. 
There  is  no  such  recipe,  and  perhaps  if  there 
were,  it  is  not  quite  certain  that  we  would 
all  try  it.  It  would  take  time  and  trouble. 
Cheeriness  cannot  be  taught,  like  writing, 
"in  twenty  lessons  ;  "  nor  analyzed  and  classi 
fied  and  set  forth  in  a  manual,  such  as  "The 
Art  of  Polite  Conversation,"  or  "Etiquette 
Made  Easy  for  Ladies  and  Gentlemen."  It 
lies  so  deep  that  no  surface-rules  of  behavior, 
no  description  ever  so  minute  of  what  it  is 
or  is  not,  does  or  does  not  do,  can  ever 
enable  a  person  to  "take  it  up  "  and  "master" 
it,  like  a  trade  or  a  study.  I  believe  that  it 
is,  in  the  outset,  a  good  gift  from  God  at 
one's  birth,  very  much  dependent  on  one's 


CHEEE  Y  PEOPLE.  1 73 

body,  and  a  thing  to  be  more  profoundly 
grateful  for  thau  all  that  genius  ever  inspired, 
or  talent  ever  accomplished.  This  is  natural, 
spontaneous,  inevitable  cheeriness.  This,  if 
we  were  not  born  with  it,  we  cannot  have. 
But  next  best  to  this  is  deliberate,  intended, 
and  persistent  cheeriness,  which  we  can 
create,  can  cultivate,  and  can  so  foster  and 
cherish,  that  after  a  few  years  the  world  will 
never  suspect  that  it  was  not  a  hereditary 
gift  handed  down  to  us  from  generations. 
To  do  this  we  have  only  to  watch  the 
cheeriest  people  we  know,  and  follow  their 
example.  We  shall  see,  first,  that  the  cheery 
person  never  minds — or  if  he  minds,  never 
says  a  word  about  —  small  worries,  vexa 
tions,  perplexities.  Second,  that  he  is  brim 
ful  of  sympathy  in  other  people's  gladness ; 
he  is  heartily,  genuinely  glad  of  every  bit  of 
good  luck  or  joy  which  comes  to  other 
people.  Thirdly,  he  has  a  keen  sense  of 


BITS  OF  TALK. 

humor,  and  never  lets  any  droll  thing  escape 
him ;  he  thinks  it  worth  while  to  laugh,  and 
to  make  everybody  about  him  laugh,  at  every 
amusing  thing;  no  matter  how  small,  he  has 
his  laugh,  and  a  good  hearty  laugh  too,  and 
tries  to  make  everybody  share  it.  Patience, 
sympathy,  and  humor,  —  these  are  the  three 
most  manifest  traits  in  the  cheery  person. 
But  there  is  something  else,  which  is  more 
an  emotion  than  a  trait,  more  a  state  of 
feeling  than  a  quality  of  mind.  This  is 
lovingness.  This  is  the  secret,  so  far  as 
there  is  a  secret;  this  is  the  real  point  of 
difference  between  the  mirth  of  the  witty 
and  sarcastic  person,  which  does  us  no  good, 
and  the  mirth  of  the  cheery  person,  which 
"doeth  good  like  a  medicine." 

Somebody  once  asked  a  great  painter, 
whose  pictures  were  remarkable  for  their 
exquisite  and  beautiful  coloring,  "Pray,  Mr. 
,  how  do  you  mix  your  colors  ?  " 


CHEEE  Y  PEOPLE.  l  /  5 

"With  brains,  madam  —  with  brains," 
growled  the  painter.  His  ill-nature  spoke  a 
truth.  All  men  had  or  might  have  the 
colors  he  used ;  but  no  man  produced  the 
colors  he  produced. 

So  I  would  say  of  cheeriness.  Patience, 
sympathy,  and  humor  are  the  colors ;  but 
patience  may  be  mere  do<rgedness  and  re 
ticence,  sympathy  may  be  wordy  and  shallow 
and  selfish,  and  humor  may  be  only  a  sharp 
perception  of  the  ridiculous.  Only  when 
they  are  mixed  with  love  —  love,  three  times 
love  —  do  we  have  the  true  good  cheer  of 
genuine  cheery  people. 


176  SITS  OF  TALE 


A  SHORT  CATECHISM. 

A  T  sunset  of  a  summer's  day, 

All  curled  up  in  a  funny  heap, 
Beneath  the  currant-bushes  lay 
A  boy  named  Willy,  half  asleep. 

But  peeping  through  his  sleepy  eyes 
He  watched  all  things  as  if  he  dreamed, 

And  did  not  feel  the  least  surprise 
However  strange  and  queer  the)T  seemed. 

And  every  creature  going  by 

He  hailed  with  questions  from  the  grass, 
And  laughed  and  called  out  sleepily, 

"  Unless  you  answer  you  can't  pass." 

"  O  caterpillar,  now  tell  me 

"Why  you  roll  up  so  tight  and  round ; 
You  are  the  drollest  tiling  to  see, 
A  hairy  marble  on  the  ground." 


A  SHORT  CATECHISM. 

"  I  roll  me  up  to  save  my  bones 

When  I  fall  down ;  young-  man,  if  you 
Could  do  the  same,  the  stumps  and  stones 
Would  never  bruise  you  black  and  blue." 

'  O  spider,  tell  me  why  you  hide 

The  ropes  and  ladders  which  you  spin, 
And  keep  them  all  locked  up  inside 
Your  little  body  slim  and  thin." 

"  I  hide  my  ropes  and  ladders  fine 

Away  from  neighbors'  thievish  greed; 
If  you  kept  yours  as  I  keep  mine, 
You'd  always  have  one  when  you  need.* 

"  Why  do  you  buzz  so,  busy  bee? 

Why  don't  you  make  your  honey  still? 
You  move  about  so  boisterously, 
I'm  sure  you  must  much  honey  spill." 

"  I  buzz  and  buzz,  you  silly  boy, 

Because  I  can  work  better  so ; 
Just  as  you  whistle  for  pure  joy 
When  on  the  road  to  school  you  go." 


178  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  O  robin,  wicked  robin,  why 

Did  you  my  mamma's  cherries  eat? 
You  thought  no  mortal  soul  was  nigh ; 
But  I  saw  you  from  bill  to  feet." 

"  And  I  saw  you,  my  fine  young  lad, 

And  waited  till  you'd  left  the  tree ; 

I  thought  when  you  your  fill  had  had, 

There  would  be  little  left  for  me !  " 

"  O  big  bull-frogs,  why  do  you  make 

Such  ugly  noises  every  night ! 
Nobody  can  a  half-nap  take ; 
You  make  our  baby  cry  with  fright." 

"  O  Willy,  we  suppose  the  noise 

Is  not  a  pleasant  noise  to  hear ; 
But  we've  one  hundred  little  boys,  — 
Frog-boys  so  cunning  and  so  dear ; 

"  And  it  is  not  an  easy  task, 

You  may  believe,  to  put  to  beds 
A  hundred  little  frogs  who  ask 
All  questions  which  pop  in  their  head§.;; 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ZOOMS.         1 79 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS. 

"D  OOMS  have  just  as  much  expression  as 
faces.  They  produce  just  as  strong 
nu  impression  on  us  at  first  sight.  The 
instant  we  cross  the  threshold  of  a  room, 
we  know  certain  things  about  the  person 
who  lives  in  it.  The  walls  and  the  floor, 
and  the  tables  and  chairs  all  speak  out  at 
once,  and  betray  some  of  their  owner's 
secrets.  They  tell  us  whether  she  is  neat 
or  uuneat,  orderly  or  disorderly,  and,  more 
than  all,  whether  she  is  of  a  cheerful,  sunny 
temperament,  and  loves  beauty  in  all  things, 
or  is  dull  and  heavy,  and  does  not  know 
pretty  things  from  ugly  ones.  And  just  as 
these  traits  in  a  person  act  on  us,  making 
us  happy  and  cheerful,  or  gloomy  and  sad, 
BO  does  the  room  act  upon  us.  We  may 


i8o  BITS  OF  TALK. 

not  know,  perhaps,  what  it  is  that  is  raising 
or  depressing  our  spirits ;  we  may  not  sus 
pect  that  we  could  be  influenced  by  such  a 
thing;  but  it  is  true,  nevertheless. 

I  have  been  in  many  rooms  in  which  it 
was  next  to  impossible  to  talk  with  any 
animation  or  pleasure,  or  to  have  any  sort 
of  good  time.  They  were  dark  and  dismal ; 
they  were  full  of  ugly  furniture,  badly 
arranged  ;  the  walls  and  the  floors  were  cov 
ered  with  hideous  colors ;  no  two  things 
seemed  to  belong  together,  or  to  have  any 
relation  to  each  other ;  so  that  the  whole 
effect  on  the  eye  was  almost  as  torturing  as 
the  effect  on  the  ear  would  be  of  hearing  a 
band  of  musicians  playing  on  bad  instru 
ments,  and  all  playing  different  tunes. 

I  have  also  been  in  many  rooms  where 
you  could  not  help  having  a  good  time, 
even  if  there  were  nothing  especial  going 
on  in  the  way  of  conversation  or  amusement, 


THE  EXPEESSION  OF  KOOMS.         1 8 1 

just  because  the  room  was  so  bright  and  cosey. 
It  did  you  good  simply  to  sit  still  there. 
You  almost  thought  you  would  like  to  go 
(Sometimes  when  the  owner  was  away,  and 
you  need  not  talk  with  anybody  but  the 
room  itself. 

In  very  many  instances  the  dismal  rooms 
were  the  rooms  on  which  a  great  deal  of 
money  had  been  spent,  and  the  cosey 
rooms  belonged  to  people  who  were  by  no 
means  rich.  Therefore,  since  rooms  can  be 
made  cosey  and  cheerful  with  very  little 
money,  I  think  it  is  right  to  say  that  it  is 
every  woman's  duty  to  make  her  rooms 
cosey  and  cheerful.  I  do  not  forget  that,  in 
speaking  to  my  readers,  I  am  speaking  to 
girls  who  are  for  the  most  part  living  in 
their  parents'  houses,  and  who  have  not, 
therefore,  the  full  control  of  their  own 
rooms.  But  it  is  precisely  during  these 
years  of  life  that  the  habits  and  tastes  are 


1 82  SITS  OF  TALK. 

formed ;  and  the  girl  who  allows  her  own 
room  in  her  father's  house  to  be  untidy  and 
unadorned,  will  inevitably,  if  she  ever  has; 
a  house  of  her  own,  let  that  be  untidy  and 
unadorned  too. 

There  is  not  one  of  my  readers,  I  am 
sure,  who  does  not  have,  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  pocket-money  enough  to  do  a  great 
deal  toward  making  her  room  beautiful. 
There  is  not  one  whose  parents  do  not 
spend  for  her,  on  Christmas,  and  New 
Year's,  and  her  birthday,  a  sum  of  money, 
more  or  less,  which  they  would  gladly  give 
to  her,  if  she  preferred  it,  to  be  spent  in 
adorning  her  room. 

It  is  not  at  all  impossible  that  her  parents 
would  like  to  give  her,  also,  a  small  sum  to 
be  spent  in  ornamenting  the  common  living- 
room  of  the  house.  This  is  really  a  work 
which  daughters  ought  to  do,  and  which 
busy,  tired  mothers  would  be  very  glad  to 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS.         1 83 

have  them  do,  if  they  show  good  taste  in 
their  arrangements.  The  girl  who  cares 
enough  and  understands  enough  about  the 
expression  of  rooms  to  make  her  own  room 
pretty,  will  not  be  long  content  while  her 
mother's  rooms  are  bare  and  uninviting,  and 
she  will  come  to  have  a  new  standard  of 
values  in  the  matter  of  spending  money,  as 
soon  as  she  begins  to  want  to  buy  things  to 
make  rooms  pretty. 

How  much  better  to  have  a  fine  plaster 
cast  of  ^Apollo  or  Clytie,  than  a  gilt  locket, 
for  instance  !  How  much  better  to  have  a 
heliotype  picture  of  one  of  Eaphael's  or  Cor- 
reggio's  Madonna's,  than  seventy-five  cents' 
worth  of  candy  !  Six  shillings  will  buy  the 
heliotype,  and  three  dollars  the  Clytie  and 
Apollo  both ! 

No  !  It  is  not  a  question  of  money  ;  it  is 
a  question  of  taste ;  it  is  a  question  of 
choosing  between  good  and  beautiful  things, 


1 84  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  bad  and  ugly  things ;  between  things 
which  last  for  years,  and  do  you  good  every 
hour  of  every  day,  as  often  as  you  look  at 
them,  and  things  which  are  gone  in  an  hour 
or  a  few  days,  and  even  for  the  few  days 
or  the  hour  do  harm  rather  than  good. 

Therefore  I  think  it  is  right  to  say  that  it 
is  the  duty  of  every  one  to  have  his  or  her 
rooms  cheerful  and  cosey,  and,  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  beautiful ;  the  duty  of  every  man  and 
woman,  the  duty  of  every  boy  and  girl. 

To  give  minute  directions  for  all  the 
things  which  help  to  make  rooms  cosey  and 
cheerful  and  beautiful,  would  require  vol 
umes.  Many  books  have  been  written  on 
the  subject,  and  I  often  see  these  books 
lying  on  tables  in  very  dismal  rooms.  The 
truth  is,  these  recipes  are  like  many  recipes 
for  good  things  to  eat ;  it  takes  a  good  cook 
in  the  beginning,  to  know  how  to  make  use 
of  the  recipe.  But  there  are  some  first 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS.          185 

principles  of  the  art  which  can  be  told  in  a 
very  few  words. 

The  first  essential  for  a  cheerful  room  is  — 
Sunshine.  Without  this,  money,  labor,  taste, 
are  all  thrown  away.  A  dark  room  cannot 
be  cheerful ;  and  it  is  as  unwholesome  as  it 
is  gloomy.  Flowers  will  not  blossom  in  it ; 
neither  will  people.  Nobody  knows,  or 
ever  will  know,  how  many  men  and  women 
have  been  killed  by  dark  rooms. 

w  Glorify  the  room  !  Glorify  the  room  !  " 
Sidney  Smith  used  to  say  of  a  morning, 
when  he  ordered  every  blind  thrown  open, 
every  shade  drawn  up  to  the  top  of  the 
window.  Whoever  is  fortunate  enough  to 
have  a  south-east  or  south-west  corner  room, 
may,  if  she  chooses,  live  in  such  floods  of 
sunny  light  that  sickness  will  have  hard 
work  to  get  hold  of  her ;  and  as  for  the 
blues,  they  will  not  dare  to  so  much  as 
knock  at  her  door. 


1 86  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Second  on  my  list  of  essentials  for  a 
cheerful  room,  I  put  — Color.  Man\r  a  room 
that  would  otherwise  be  charming,  is  expres 
sionless  and  tame  for  want  of  bright  color. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  red.  It  is  the  most 
kindling  and  inspiring  of  colors.  No  room 
can  be  perfect  without  a  good  deal  of  it. 
All  the  shades  of  scarlet  or  crimson  are 
good.  In  an  autumn  leaf,  in  a  curtain,  in  a 
chair-cover,  in  a  pin-cushion,  in  a  vase,  in 
the  binding  of  a  book,  everywhere  you  put 
it,  it  makes  a  brilliant  point  and  gives  pleas 
ure.  The  blind  say  that  they  always  think 
red  must  be  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet; 
and  I  think  there  is  a  deep  truth  in  their 
instinct.  It  is  the  gladdest  and  most  trium 
phant  color  everywhere. 

Next  to  red  comes  yellow ;  this  must  bo 
used  very  sparingly.  No  bouquet  of  flowers 
is  complete  without  a  little  touch  of  yellow ; 
and  no  room  is  as  gay  without  yellow  as 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  BOOMS.         1 8/ 

with  it.  But  a  bouquet  in  which  yellow  pre 
dominates  is  ugly ;  the  colors  of  all  the 
other  flowers  are  killed  by  it ;  and  a  room 
which  has  one  grain  too  much  of  yellow  in 
it  is  hopelessly  ruined.  I  have  seen  the 
whole  expression  of  one  side  of  a  room 
altered,  improved,  toned  up,  by  the  taking 
out  of  two  or  three  bright  yellow  leaves 
from  a  big  sheaf  of  sumacs  and  ferns.  The 
best  and  safest  color  for  walls  is  a  delicate 
cream  color.  When  I  say  best  and  safest,  I 
mean  the  best  background  for  bright  colors 
and  for  pictures,  and  the  color  which  is  least 
in  danger  of  disagreeing  with  anything  you 
may  want  to  put  upon  it.  So  also  with 
floors ;  the  safest  and  best  tint  is  a  neutral 
gray.  If  you  cannot  have  a  bare  wooden 
floor,  either  of  black  walnut,  or  stained  to 
imitate  it,  then  have  a  plain  gray  felt  carpet. 
Above  all  things,  avoid  bright  colors  in  a 
carpet.  In  rugs,  to  lay  down  on  a  plain 


1 88  B^TS  OF  TALK. 

gray,  or  on  a  dark-brown  floor,  the  brightei 
the  colors  the  better.  The  rugs  are  only  so 
many  distinct  pictures  thrown  up  into  relief 
here  and  there  by  the  under-tint  of  gray  or 
brown.  But  a  pattern  either  set  or  other 
wise,  of  bright  colors  journeying  up  and 
down,  back  and  forth,  breadth  after  breadth, 
on  a  floor,  is  always  and  forever  ugly.  If 
one  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  enter  on  the  pos 
session  of  a  room  with  such  a  carpet  as  this, 
or  with  a  wall-paper  of  a  similar  nature,  the 
first  thing  to  be  done,  if  possible,  is  to  get 
rid  of  them  or  cover  them  up.  Better  have 
a  ten-cent  paper  of  neutral  tints  and  indis 
tinguishable  figures,  on  the  wall,  and  have 
bare  floors  painted  brown  or  gray. 

Third  on  my  list  of  essentials  for  making 
rooms  cosey,  cheerful,  and  beautiful,  come  — 
Books  and  Pictures.  Here  some  persons  will 
cry  out :  "  But  books  and  pictures  cost  a 
great  deal  of  money."  Yes,  books  do  cost 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS.         189 

money,  and  so  do  pictures ;  but  books 
accumulate  rapidly  in  most  houses  where 
books  are  read  at  all ;  and  if  people  really 
want  books,  it  is  astonishing  how  many  they 
contrive  to  get  together  in  a  few  years  with 
out  pinching  themselves  very  seriously  in 
other  directions. 

As  for  pictures  costing  money,  how  much 
or  how  little  they  cost  depends  on  what  sort 
of  pictures  you  buy.  As  I  said  before,  you 
can  buy,  for  six  shillings,  a  good  heliotype 
(which  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  as 
good  as  an  engraving)  of  one  of  Raphael's 
or  Correggio's  Madonnas.  But  }TOU  can  buy 
pictures  much  cheaper  than  that.  A  Japan 
ese  fan  is  a  picture ;  some  of  them  are 
exquisite  pictures,  and  blazing  with  color, 
too.  They  cost  anywhere  from  two  to  six 
cents.  There  are  also  Japanese  pictures, 
printed  on  coarse  paper,  some  two  feet  long 
and  one  broad,  to  be  bought  for  twenty-five 


190  SITS  OF  TALK. 

cents  each  ;  with  a  dozen  of  these,  a  dozen 
or  two  of  fans,  and  say  four  good  helio- 
types,  you  can  make  the  walls  of  a  small 
room  so  gay  that  a  stranger's  first  impres 
sion  on  entering  it  will  be  that  it  is  adorned 
for  a  festival.  The  fans  can  be  pinned  on 
the  Avails  in  endlessly  picturesque  combina 
tions.  One  of  the  most  effective  is  to  pin 
them  across  the  corners  of  the  room  in  over 
lapping  rows,  like  an  old-fashioned  card- 
rack. 

And  here  let  me  say  a  word  about  corners. 
They  are  wofully  neglected.  Even  in  rooms 
where  very  much  has  been  done  in  way  of 
decoration,  you  will  see  all  the  four  corners 
left  bare, — forcing  their  ugly  sharp  right 
angle  on  your  sight  at  every  turn.  They 
are  as  ugly  as  so  many  elbows  !  Make  the 
four  corners  pretty,  and  the  room  is  pretty, 
even  if  very  little  else  be  done.  Instead  of 
having  one  stiff,  straight-shelved  book-case 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS.         191 

hanging  on  the  wall,  have  a  carpenter  put 
triangular  shelves  into  the  corners.  He  will 
make  them  for  thirty  cents  apiece,  and  screw 
them  on  the  walls.  Put  a  dozen  books  on 
each  of  the  lower  shelves,  a  bunch  of  autumn 
leaves,  a  pretty  vase,  a  little  bust  of  Clytie, 
or  a  photograph  on  a  small  easel,  on  the 
upper  ones,  and  with  a  line  of  Japanese  fans 
coming  down  to  meet  them  from  the  cornice, 
the  four  corners  are  furnished  and  adorned. 
This  is  merely  a  suggestion  of  one  out  of  a 
dozen  of  ways  in  which  walls  can  be  made 
pleasant  to  look  at  without  much  cost. 

If  the  room  has  chintz  curtains,  these 
shelves  will  look  well  covered  with  the  same 
chintz,  with  a  plaited  ruffle  tacked  on  their 
front  edge.  If  the  room  has  a  predominant 
color,  say  a  green  carpet,  or  a  border  on  the 
walls  of  claret  or  crimson,  the  shelves  will 
look  well  with  a  narrow,  straight  border  of 
billiard-cloth  or  baize  (to  match  the  ruling 


192  BITS  OF  TALK. 

color  of  the  room)  pinked  on  the  lower 
edge,  and  tacked  on.  Some  people  put  on 
borders  of  gay  colors,  in  embroidery.  It  is 
generally  unsafe  to  add  these  to  a  room,  but 
sometimes  they  have  a  good  effect. 

Fourth  on  my  list  of  essentials  for  a  cosey, 
cheerful  room,  I  put — Order.  This  is  a 
dangerous  thing  to  say,  perhaps ;  but  it  is 
my  honest  conviction  that  sunlight,  color, 
books  and  pictures  come  before  Order.  Ob 
serve,  however,  that  while  it  comes  fourth  on 
the  list,  it  is  only  fourth  ;  it  is  by  no  means 
last !  I  am  not  making  an  exhaustive  list. 
I  do  not  know  where  I  should  stop  if  I 
undertook  that.  I  am  mentioning  only  a 
few  of  the  first  principles,  — the  essentials. 
And  in  regard  to  this  very  question  of  order, 
I  am  partly  at  a  loss  to  know  how  far  it  is 
safe  to  permit  it  to  lay  down  its  law  in  a 
room.  I  think  almost  as  many  rooms  are 
spoiled  by  being  kept  in  too  exact  order,  as 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  ROOMS.          193 

by  being  too  disorderly.  There  is  an  ap 
parent  disorder  which  is  not  disorderly ; 
and  there  is  an  apparent  order,  which  is  only 
a  witness  to  the  fact  that  things  are  never 
used.  I  do  not  know  how  better  to  state 
the  golden  mean  on  this  point  than  to  tell 
the  story  of  an  old  temple  which  was  once 
discovered,  bearing  on  three  of  its  sides  this 
inscription  :  "Be  bold."  On  the  fourth  side 
the  inscription  :  "Be  not  too  bold." 

I  think  it  would  be  well  written  on  three 
sides  of  a  room:  "Be  orderly."  On  the 
fourth  side  :  "But  don't  be  too  orderly." 

I  read  once  in  a  child's  letter  a  paragraph 
somewhat  like  this  : 

"  I  look  every  day  in  the  glass  to  see  how 
my  countenance  is  growing.  My  nurse  has 
told  me  that  every  one  creates  his  own 
countenance ;  that  God  gives  us  our  faces, 
but  we  can  make  a  good  or  bad  countenance, 
13 


BITS  OF  TALK. 

by  thinking  good  or  bad  thoughts,  keeping 
in  a  good  or  bad  temper." 

I  have  often  thought  of  this  in  regard  to 
rooms.  When  we  first  take  possession  of  a 
room,  it  has  no  especial  expression,  perhaps, 
—  at  any  rate,  no  expression  peculiar  to  us ; 
but  day  by  day  we  create  its  countenance, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  few  years  it  is  sure  to  be 
a  pretty  good  reflection  of  our  own. 


BY  STAGE  TO  BOSTON.  195 


BY  STAGE  TO  BOSTON. 

T  HAVE  been  young,  and  now  I  have  grown  old, 

But  never  until  yesterday  I  knew 
How  many  living  souls  a  stage  can  hold, 
And  make  the  quickest  time  its  journey  through. 

I  came  upon  the  stage  so  suddenly, — 
And,  for  a  stage,  in  such  a  funny  place; 

I  stood  stock  still,  surprised  as  I  could  be, 
With  blank  amazement  written  in  my  face. 

'Twas  just  behind  old  Deacon  Thatcher's  shed* 
The  wheels  in  butter-cups  sunk  to  the  hubs ; 

The  pole  stretched  over  a  white  clover-bed, 
And  almost  into  Mrs.  Thatcher's  tubs. 

From  every  window  looked  out  laughing  eyes ; 

From  every  window  came  a  scream  and  shout ; 
Before,  behind,  the  children  swarmed  like  flies, 

And  madly  rocked  the  old  blue  stage  about. 


106  BITS  OF  TALE". 

"  O  ho!  "  I  said,  and  felt  as  young  as  they; 

"  "Whose  stage  is  this?    To  what  town  does  it  go? 
And  is  there  room  for  me  to  go  to-day? 

And  how  much  is  the  fare,  I  want  to  know?  " 

As  quick  as  lightning  all  the  children  cried: 
"  We  go  to  Boston,  and  we've  got  our  load; 

But  you  can  go  if  you  will  ride  outside ; 
The  fare  is  just  a  dollar  for  each  rod ! " 

"  Oh  dear !  "  said  I,  "  your  fare  is  much  too  high; 

The  money  that  I  have  would  not  begin  " — 
"  Jump  on!  jump  on!  "  they  all  began  to  cry, 

"  We'll  take  you  once  for  nothing ;  you  are  thin  I " 

I  knew  much  better  than  to  spoil  their  fun ; 

So  I  went  on  and  found  a  shady  place, 
And  watched,  and  saw  that  till  the  day  was  done 

They  travelled  tireless,  at  their  quickest  pace. 

But  all  the  time  I  watched  I  could  not  win 
My  heart  from  thinking,  while  I  dreamed  and 
smiled, 

Of  that  fair  kingdom  none  can  enter  in 
Without  becoming  first  a  little  child. 


GOOD  TEMPEE.  197 


GOOD  TEMPER. 

/nrvHE  dictionaries  give  eight  definitions  of 
the  word  "  Temper  " ;  some  of  them  are 
rather  surprising  the  first  time  one  reads 
them.  We  are  so  in  the  habit  of  using 
words  without  thinking  much  about  what 
they  mean,  that  when  we  happen  to  look 
them  out  in  the  dictionary,  we  find  that 
we  are  more  ignorant  than  we  supposed. 
The  other  day  I  was  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  a  dictionary,  and  my  eye  accidentally  fell 
on  a  very  common  word,  one  we  use  every 
hour,  of  which  I  should  have  said  that  it 
might  perhaps  have  half-a-dozen  different 
meanings,  and  it  had  twenty-two !  This 
shows  you  what  an  interesting  book  the 
dictionary  is. 

The  second  definition  of  the  word  "tern- 


198  BITS  OF  TALK. 

per"  is,  "the  constitution  or  natural  condi 
tion  of  the  body."  This  is  a  definition 
which  we  ought  always  to  remember  when 
we  are  criticising  other  people's  temper.  It 
ought  to  make  us  very  charitable  and  very 
patient.  Nobody  knows  how  much  of  the 
ill-temper  in  the  world  is  the  result  of  a 
feeble  or  diseased  body.  On  the  other  hand, 
however,  nobody  knows  how  much  can  be 
done  in  the  way  of  controlling  the  ill-temper 
which  is  the  result  of  a  feeble  or  diseased 
body,  and  therefore  I  think  while  we  ought 
to  remember  this  definition  when  we  are 
judging  other  people,  we  would  better  for 
get  it  when  we  are  judging  ourselves.  No 
doubt  that  we  will  find  plenty  of  excuses  for 
being  cross,  without  going  to  the  dictionary 
for  them.  And  yet,  if  one  looks  at  the 
matter  honestly,  is  there  really  ever  such  a 
thing  as  an  excuse  for  being  cross  ?  Why, 
the  minute  you  sit  down  in  a  leisurely  and 


GOOD  TEMPER.  199 

good-natured  way,  and  think  the  thing  over, 
does  it  not  seem  the  stupidest  thing  in  the 
world  ever  to  permit  one's  self  to  give  way 
to  bad  temper?  In  the  first  place,  it  never 
does  the  least  good ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
always  makes  bad  matters  worse.  In  the 
second  place,  it  is  misery.  I  don't  believe 
there  is  anything  in  the  world,  except  the 
toothache,  which  is  so  uncomfortable  ;  and 
even  the  toothache  doesn't  make  one  look  so 
hideous ;  no,  not  even  if  it  swells  one's 
cheek  up  to  twice  the  natural  size.  A  good- 
natured  smile  could  make  even  such  a  face  as 
that  look  not  unpleasing ;  but  a  face  dis 
torted  by  bad  temper  nothing  can  redeem ; 
and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  the  distortion 
lasts.  Every  time  a  fit  of  bad  temper  hap 
pens,  it  leaves  its  mark  behind  it;  there  is 
no  writing  plainer  than  it  writes  on  faces  j 
day  by  day  the  lines  grow  deeper,  as  if  they 
were  graven  in  by  a  sharp  instrument :  ugly 


200  BITS  OF  TALK. 

furrows  between  the  eyes ;  a  still  uglier 
droop  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth  !  Why, 
even,  the  babies  know  the  face  of  a  cross 
person,  at  sight,  and  begin  to  cry  if  he  offers 
to  touch  them.  Animals  know  it;  cats  and 
dogs  run  when  they  see  some  persons  coming 
towards  them  :  and,  if  you  look  closely,  you 
will  usually  see  that  the  person  has  some  of 
the  signs  of.  bad  temper  on  his  face. 

But  I  think  I  hear  a  whisper  from  some 
child  who  is  reading  this  page,  "Why,  she 
said  she  was  going  to  talk  about  'Good 
Temper,'  and  she  is  speaking  of  bad  tem 
per  all  the  while."  So  I  am ;  and  I  won 
der  if  I  did  begin  my  talk  wrong-end 
foremost?  No!  I  think  not.  I  think  the 
best  way  to  understand  what  Good  Temper 
is,  is  by  observing  bad  temper  :  the  best  way 
to  realize  how  much  more  sensible  and 
comfortable  a  good-tempered  person  is,  is  to 


GOOD  TEMPER.  2OI 

observe  how  silly  and  wretched  bad-tempered 
people  are. 

It  is  much  easier  to  define  Good  Temper 
by  giving  a  list  of  the  things  it  will  never 
do,  than  by  trying  to  tell  what  it  does.  And 
that  would  be  the  best  way,  too,  to  man 
ufacture  a  recipe  for  Good  Temper,  I  think : 
to  mention  all  the  things  which  must  be  left 
out,  though  this  does  really  sound  like  an 
Irish  Bull.  Many  people  suppose  that  good 
temper  and  natural  amiability  are  the  same 
things.  It  is  not  so.  Some  of  the  best- 

o 

tempered  people  I  ever  knew,  were  not 
naturally  amiable  at  all ;  and  I  have  several 
times  in  my  life  seen  people  who  were 
called  very  amiable,  who  did  not  seem 
to  me  at  all  good-tempered.  The  sort 
of  person  who  is  generally  called  "very 
amiable,"  is  apt  to  be  very  obstinate ;  and 
obstinacy  is  a  trait  of  which  a  really  good 
temper  must  not  have  a  trace.  Good  Temper 


202  BITS  OF  TALK. 

must  be  ready  to  "  give  up  " ;  give  up  having 
its  own  way ;  give  up  trying  to  convince 
other  people  that  its  own  way  is  best ;  give 
up  having  "the  last  word."  How  hard  it 
does  seern,  sometimes,  to  do  this  !  how  very 
provoking  it  is  to  see  a  thing  distinctly  your 
self,  and  not  be  able  to  make  the  person  who 
is  disputing  with  you  see  it !  And,  if  he 
loses  his  temper,  and  says  things  which  you 
know  that  he  must  know  are  unjust,  how 
very  hard  it  is  to  give  up  the  argument,  and 
let  the  whole  thing  go.  No  !  I  used  the  wrong 
word.  I  said,  how  hard  it  "is"!  I  ought 
to  have  said,  how  hard  it  "seems."  It  is 
not  really  half  so  hard  in  the  long  rim,  as 
the  other  way,  if  we  could  only  realize,  at 
the  time,  how  little  we  should  care  about 
the"  whole  thing  a  few  hours  later ;  and  how 
much  happier  we  should  be  by  that  time,  if 
we  stopped  short  in  the  quarrel. 

I  suppose  more  bad  temper  is  shown,  and 


GOOD  TEMPER.  203 

more  angry  resentment  felt,  in  disputes  about 
little  things  which  are  not  really  of  the  least 
consequence,  than  in  all  other  ways  put  to 
gether :  about  a  date,  for  instance,  or  the 
place  where  a  thing  was  left ;  or  the  heat  or 
the  cold,  or  the  best  way  of  doing  some 
thing. 

You  have  all  seen  people  lose  their  tempers 
sadly,  in  discussing  trifles  like  these.  Now 
isn't  it  silly?  In  a  week,  in  a  day,  perhaps, 
we  Avould  not  even  remember  the  thing  we 
were  quarrelling  over ;  and  if  we  did  re 
member  it,  it  would  only  be  to  be  ashamed 
of  having  allowed  ourselves  to  be  angry 
about  it. 

This  is  a  thing  which  good  temper  will  not 
do.  Good  Temper  is  too  strong  and  too  sen 
sible  ;  Good  Temper  thinks  in  time,  and  says 
to  itself,  "  Never  mind ;  it  is  not  of  the  least 
consequence,  one  way  or  the  other.  Let  it 
go." 


204  SITS  OF  TALK. 

There  is  another  thing  which  Good  Temper 
thinks  in  time  about :  and  that  is  about  the 
sort  of  answer  it  is  best  to  make  to  unkind 
or  harsh  words. 

There  is  a  little  verse  in  the  Bible  which 
Good  Temper  has  always  at  its  tongue's 
end,  as  you  might  say  : 

"  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath." 

Good  Temper  will  not  let  itself  be  pro 
voked  into  "  answering  back."  When  people 
are  too  unreasonable  or  cross,  so  that  even 
soft  answers  seem  to  do  little  good,  Good 
Temper  keeps  silent;  not  a  sulky  silence 
—  that  is  the  worst  possible  shape  which  the 
worst  possible  temper  can  take  —  but  a  calm, 
gentle  silence,  ready  at  a  second's  notice  to 
speak  pleasantly  about  something  else,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

There  is  one  more  thing  which  Good  Tem 
per  does  not  do  :  it  does  not  grumble.  It 


GOOD  TENPEE.  205 

is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  a 
habit  of  grumbling,  so  many  things  go  wrong 
every  day,  and  every  hour.  I  suppose  there 
is  not  a  person  in  this  world,  at  this  minute, 
who  has  not  some  real  troubles,  and  a  great 
many  discomforts.  And  if  we  all  lifted  up 
our  voices,  and  told  them,  there  would  be 
a  great  chorus  of  complaints.  But  Good 
Temper  knows  better.  Good  Temper  holds 
its  tongue  :  Good  Temper  has  a  shrewd  old 
motto  about  such  things,  — 

"What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured." 

These  three  things,  then,  Good  Temper 
never  does  :  never  disputes,  never  answers 
back  hastily,  never  grumbles.  These  are  the 
negatives  of  its  laws. 

The  things  that  it  does,  Time  would  fail 
us  to  tell,  for  they  are  so  many ;  and  they 
are  not  alike  in  any  two  people,  in  any  two 
places.  Good  Temper  is  unselfish,  likeb  to 


206  BITS  OF  TALK. 

see  other  people  comfortable.  Good  Tem 
per  helps  everybody  it  can.  Good  Tem 
per  smiles  when  it  looks  into  people's  faces, 
and  says  a  pleasant  word  whenever  it  has  a 
chance.  In  short,  Good  Temper  keeps  the 
"Golden  Kule,"  that  wonderful,  simple,  short 
rule  in  so  few  words,  which  covers  every  act 
that  is  possible  in  the  life  of  a  human  being. 

The  sixth  definition  which  the  dictionary 
gives  of  "  Temper,"  is,  — 

"  State  to  which  metals,  particularly  steel, 
are  reduced,  in  respect  to  hardness  or  elas 
ticity." 

The  word  elasticity  here  is  the  one  which 
applies  both  to  the  temper  of  metals,  and  of 
men.  Of  the  finest-tempered  steel  a  weapon 
can  be  made  so  elastic  that  you  may  bend  it 
double  and  it  will  not  snap.  The  instant  the 
pressure  is  removed  it  will  fly  back  to  its 
original  shape,  unbent,  untarnished,  and  un 
hurt.  This  is  wonderfully  like  the  way  the 


GOOD  TEMPER.  2O7 

finest-tempered  people  meet  the  trials  and 
crosses  of  everyday  life.  Good  Temper 
bends  double,  if  need  be ;  but  it  does  not 
snap.  When  the  pressure  is  over,  it  is 
itself  again  as  shining  and  perfect  as  ever. 
It  is  like  the  famous  cimeter  of  Saladiu, 
which  put  to  shame  King  Richard's  huge 
broadsword  in  the  hands  of  King  Richard 
himself.  The  broadsword  was  of  good  metal, 
no  doubt ;  and  it  was  "  so  long  that  it  reached 
well  nigh  from  the  shoulders  to  the  heels"  of 
a  man,  the  old  tale  says.  Few  men  could 
even  lift  it;  but  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion 
made  nothing  of  swinging  it  round  his  head, 
and  brmffinff  it  down  with  a  blow  that  would 

O        O 

fell  an  ox.  One  day,  when  he  was  in 
Palestine,  to  show  the  Saracens  what  he 
could  do  with  this  broadsword,  he  cut  a 
thick  bar  of  iron  through,  at  a  single  stroke  ; 
the  two  pieces  rolled  on  the  ground,  "as  a 
woodsman  would  sever  a  sapling,"  and  w  the 


208  BITS  OF  TALK. . 

blade  of  the  sword  was  so  well-tempered  as 
to  exhibit  not  the  least  token  of  having 
suffp-^d  by  the  feat  it  had  performed." 

Then  Saladin,  the  Saracen  Prince,  took  a 
silken  cushion  stuffed  with  down,  and  plac 
ing  it  upright,  asked  King  Richard  if  he 
could  cut  that  in  two. 

"No,  surely,"  replied  the  King,  "no  sword 
on  earth  can  cut  that  which  opposes  no 
steady  resistance  to  the  blow." 

Ha !  ha !  how  the  Saracen  must  have 
laughed  when  he  heard  the  King  say  that, 
for  he  knew  very  well  that  his  cimeter, 
which  was  narrow  and  light  as  a  reaping- 
hook,  could  cut  that  bag  of  down  much 
more  easily  than  King  Richard  had  cut  the 
iron  bar. 

Then  the  story  goes  on  to  say,  "He  drew 
the  cimeter  across  the  cushion,  applying  the 
edge  so  dexterously,  and  with  so  little  ap 
parent  effort,  that  the  cushion  seemed  rather 


GOOD  TEMPER.  209 

to  fall  asunder  than  to  be  divided  by  vio 
lence." 

King  Richard's  followers  did  not  like  to 
see  this  ;  and  one  of  them  exclaimed  : 

"It  is  a  juggler's  trick  ;  there  is  gramarye 
in  this." 

That  is  just  the  way  we  feel  sometimes 
when  we  see  how  stupid  people,  and  inert 
people,  and  obstinate  people,  are  managed, 
and  set  right,  and  kindled  up  by  one  person's 
good  temper  brought  to  bear  on  them.  It 
seems  almost  like  "gramarye." 

When  the  Englishman  said  this,  the  Sar 
acen  Prince  took  a  thin  veil,  and  letting  it 
fall  across  the  edge  of  his  cimeter,  cut  that 
also  into  two  pieces,  which  floated  away  in 
the  air.  This  was  even  more  wonderful 
than  the  other.  How  stupid  and  coarse  the 
mere  brute  force  of  the  great  broadsword 
seemed  after  this  ! 

There  are  occasions,  no  doubt,  when  the 


2IO  BITS  OF  TALK. 

broadsword  kind  of  temper  is  of  use ;  but 
they  are  rare.  For  the  everyday  needs  of 
everyday  life,  for  the  little  worries,  and  the 
little  perplexities,  for  the  silliness,  and  the 
stupidity,  and  the  contrariness  of  people,  the 
fine,  and  light,  and  elastic  touch  of  Saladin's 
cimeter  is  a  great  deal  better. 


LIZZY  OF  LA  BOURGET.  21 1 


LIZZY  OF  LA  BOUKGET. 

T  TELL  you  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me. 

'Tis  a  tale  that  I  dearly  love  to  tell ; 
The  tale  of  Lizzy  of  La  Bourget, 
Of  faithful  Lizzy,  who  ran  so  well. 

This  Lizzy  of  La  Bourget  was  a  mare ; 

She  was  all  snow  white  except  two  black  feet; 
Her  sire  was  an  Arab  steed,  coal  black, 

Her  dam  was  a  Cossack  pony  fleet. 

Her  Arab  blood  made  her  tireless  and  strong, 
Her  Cossack  blood  made  her  loving  and  true ; 

Oh  I  Lizzy  of  La  Bourget  could  love 
As  warmly  as  human  beings  do. 

She  followed  her  peasant  master  to  work, 
Obeyed  at  a  sign  or  call  of  her  name ; 

All  day  she  tugged  at  his  cart  or  plough, 
And  bounding  at  night  she  homeward  came. 


212  BITS  OF  TALK. 

She  was  never  groomed,  but  she  shone  like  silk, 
And  fattened  well  on  the  poorest  fare ; 

She  played  with  the  children  like  a  dog, 
And  the  children  fed  her  with  her  share. 

"When  the  war  broke  out  and  her  master  went 
To  fight  with  the  French,  good  Lizzy  went  too : 

And  many  a  battle,  night  and  day, 

She  carried  him  bravely,  safely  through. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  turn  in  the  tide, 
For  Lizzy  and  master,  disastrous  day; 

The  day  on  which  a  battle  was  fought, 
A  bloody  battle  at  La  Bourget. 

The  cavalry  regiment,  horse  and  man 
"Were  caught  in  an  ambush  and  hemmed  in : 

The  Frenchman  captured  them  every  one, 
And  held  them,  a  ransom  large  to  win. 

The  captors  were  tipsy;  'twas  late  at  night; 

The  foolish  men  drank  because  they  were  glad: 
Alone,  by  a  half-open  casement  low, 

Sat  Lizzy's  poor  master,  weary  and  sad, 


LIZZY  OF  LA  BOUEGET.  213 

When,  sudden,  he  heard  a  sound  that  he  knew ; 

He  could  not  mistake,  it  was  Lizzy's  neigh ; 
She  had  broken  loose  and  was  seeking  him, 

Oh,  brave,  good  Lizzy  of  La  Bourgetl 

The  captors  were  tipsy ;  they  did  not  hear 
Their  prisoner  call  "  Lizzy  "  in  whisper  low; 

They  did  not  notice  the  joyous  neigh : 
The  first  they  knew,  with  one  ringing  blow 

The  casement  was  burst  from  its  hinges  strong, 
Their  prisoner  had  leaped  on  his  good  mare's 
back; 

And  through  the  darkness  he  raced,  he  flew, 
With  a  hundred  bullets  on  his  track. 

No  bridle !  no  spur  I    But  well  Lizzy  knew 
The  life  of  her  master  lay  in  her  speed, 

She  ran  like  a  whirlwind,  and  paid  to  the  shots 
No  more  than  to  summer  raindrops  heed. 

No  compass  I  no  guide  I    Nought  knew  the  Hussar 

Of  right  or  left  in  his  perilous  way ; 
But  safe,  sure  instinct  his  Lizzy  had, 

She  knew  the  road  back  to  La  Bourget. 


214 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


All  night  and  the  most  of  a  day  she  ran, 
She  had  110  water,  she  was  not  fed ; 

And  when  she  arrived  at  La  Bourget, 
You  well  may  think,  she  was  almost  dead. 

But  a  shout  arose  from  each  man  who  saw 
Her  dash  into  camp  with  her  gallant  stride. 

And  the  General  himself  came  out  to  see 
The  horse  and  the  master  of  such  a  ride. 

The  fight  had  been  fierce,  and  many  men  won 
Great  fame  in  the  heat  of  that  bloody  day, 

But  long  after  they  are  forgotten  all, 
The  world  will  know  Lizzy  of  La  Bourget. 


KICKING  AGAINST  PEICKS.  2 1 5 


KICKING  AGAINST  PRICKS. 


nPI-IE  world  is  full  of  things  that  prick. 
There  are  nettles,  and  burdocks,  and 
thistles,  and  rose-bushes,  and  raspberry- 
bushes,  and  blackberry-vines,  which  ever/ 
child  knows  by  sight.  Then  in  the  South, 
and  out  in  the  far  West,  where  I  live,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  there  are  in 
addition  to  all  these,  more  than  a  dozen 
different  kinds  of  cactus  which  prick  worse 
than  anything  else  in  the  world  ;  and  there 
is  a  plant  called  Yucca,  which  has  long  leaves 
almost  as  narrow  as  a  grass-blade,  pointed  at 
the  end,  and  as  stiff  as  a  knife.  Sometimes 
this  is  called  Spanish  Bayonet,  because  its 
leaves  are  as  sharp  as  the  point  of  a  bayonet. 
They  could  run  a  long  way  into  flesh  if 
they  were  used  as  weapons.  I  presume 


2l6  BITS  OF  TALK. 

there  are  a  great  many  more  things  that 
prick  that  I  never  heard  of.  Probably  no 
country  is  without  them ;  I  am  sure  we  have 
enough  of  them  in  America. 

How  carefully  we  move  about  where  such 
things  are  growing !  How  closely  we  look 
where  we  step  !  Everybody  knows  nettles, 
and  will  not  go  near  a  nettle-bed  if  he  can 
help  it.  In  picking  raspberries  and  black 
berries,  how  sharply  we  look  out  not  to  get 
scratched  by  the  thorns ;  how  often  we  see 
beautiful  purple  thistles,  and  say  to  our 
selves:  "Oh,  dear!  if  thistles  hadn'.t  such 
sharp  thorns  on  them,  I  would  pick  one." 
And  as  for  roses,  it  has  passed  into  a  proverb 
about  them,  — 

"  No  rose  without  a  thorn," 

which  means  that  hardly  anybody  ever  picked 

a  rose  in  his  life  without  pricking  his  fingers  1 

The   only   waj    to   handle   any   of  these 


KICKING  A  GAINST  PEICKS.     2 1  / 

things  safely,  is  to  wear  very  thick  gloves, 
or  else  to  take  a  pair  of  scissors  and  cut 
off  all  the  thorns  before  you  touch  the 
stems. 

This  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  but  not 
so  much  trouble  as  to  have  to  pick  thorns 
out  of  your  flesh,  and  to  bear  the  pain  of 
their  pricking.  Some  thorns  are  poisonous, 
and  the  pain  lasts  a  long  time.  I  knew  a 
lady  in  Colorado  who  carelessly  stepped  on. 
a  prickly  pear-plant,  —  that  is  a  kind  of 
cactus ;  it  has  flat  round  leaves  about  as 
large  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  and  shaped 
something  like  a  mitten  with  the  thumb  left 
off.  These  leaves  are  quarter  of  an  inch 
thick,  and  are  covered  all  over  with  little 
pricking  points,  as  fine  as  the  finest  needles  ; 
these  points  are  called  spines ;  they  are  so 
fine  you  can  hardly  see  one  alone  by  itself, 
and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  one  out  of 
your  flesh  if  once  it  has  sunk  in.  This  lady 


21 8  BITS  OF  TALK. 

stepped  on  some  of  these  leaves,  and  the 
spines  ran  through  her  boot  and  her  stock 
ing,  and  went  so  far  into  her  foot  she  could 
not  pull  them  out.  Her  foot  swelled,  and 
her  whole  leg  swelled ;  for  two  weeks  she 
had  to  sit  with  her  leg  resting  on  a  chair, 
and  suffered  great  pain  all  that  time.  Don't 
you  believe  she  was  careful  always  after  that, 
when  she  walked  on  the  plains  where  the 
cactus  grew? 

And  now  what  do  you  suppose  is  the 
reason  I  am  saying  all  these  things  about 
different  sorts  of  plants  which  prick?  I'll, 
tell  you.  This  is  a  little  sermon,  and  all 
this  first  part  about  the  plants  that  prick,  is 
the  text  to  it. 

Now  comes  the  sermon  itself;  and  ^ou 
see  if  it  doesn't  "stick  to  its  text"  better 
than  some  sermons  do. 

There  are  hundreds  of  things  in  life  that  are 
just  like  these  thorny  leaves  and  stems  that 


KICKING  AGAINST  PRICKS.  219 

prick.  Every  day  we  come  across  them,  or 
they  come  across  us  !  Some  of  them  are  like 
the  nettles  and  burdocks,  just  mere  torments, 
to  get  away  from  if  we  can :  ugly-tempered 
people,  and  stupid,  tiresome  people  ;  I  think 
the  ugly-tempered  people  are  like  nettles ; 
how  they  do  sting  us  and  make  us  smart ! 
and  the  stupid,  tiresome  people  are  like 
burdocks ;  how  they  do  stick  to  us  when  we 
want  to  shake  them  off!  But  most  of  the 
things  in  life  which  prick  us  are  like 
the  roses,  and  the  raspberries,  and  the 
blackberries ;  good  things  which  we  want, 
beautiful  things  which  we  like  to  see,  and 
wholesome  things  which  it  is  best  for  us  to 
have ;  but  they  all  have  thorns,  and  if  we 
don't  take  hold  of  them  the  right  way,  we 
shall  surely  get  pricked.  I  will  mention 
one  of  the  things  I  mean,  and  you  will  think 
of  dozens  yourselves : 

Sleep,  is  one.     Once  I  asked  a  little  girl 


220  KITS  OF  TALK. 

what  she  disliked  most  of  all  things  in  this 
world,  and  she  answered  me,  without  stop 
ping  to  think  a  minute,  — 

"Bed-time  !  bed-timo's  the  thing  I  hate 
worst !  Bed-time's  the  meanest  thing  in  all 
the  world  ! " 

I  didn't  wonder  much,  for  I  remember 
very  well  how  I  used  to  hate  to  go  to  bed 
when  I  was  a  child.  But  if  I  had  only 
known  then,  as  I  know  now,  that  every  hour 
I  spent  in  sleep  was  helping  to  make  me  a 
strong,  healthy  woman,  and  giving  my  body 
a  chance  to  grow  to  its  full  size,  I  wouldn't 
have  hated  it  so.  No,  indeed  ;  I  would  have 
gone  to  bed  early  every  night,  of  my  own 
accord,  without  anybody's  having  to  coax 
or  to  drive  me.  I  should  have  known  that 
the  more  hours  I  spent  sleeping,  while  I  was 
a  little  child,  the  better  time  I  should  have 
when  I  grew  up. 

But  little  children  cannot  possibly  under- 


KICKING  AGAINST  PEICKS.  221 

stand  this.  They  cannot  believe  it  when 
their  fathers  and  mothers  tell  them.  So 
they  have  to  be  made  to  go  to  bed  early,  no 
matter  how  much  they  dislike  it.  Almost 
every  day  I  see  some  child  being  dragged 
off  to  bed,  by  a  nurse  or  a  mother ;  and 
when  I  hear  it  crying,  and  screaming,  and 
holding  back,  I  say,  — 

"Oh,  you  foolish  child,  you  are  kicking 
against  the  pricks  !  How  much  harder  you 
make  it  for  yourself,  as  well  as  for  everybody 
else." 

Now,  I  wish  every  boy  and  girl  that  reads 
this  would  just  try,  for  one  week,  going  to 
bed  when  the.  regular  time  comes,  without 
making  any  fuss  about  it.  Take  the  bed 
time  just  as  you  take  the  dinner-time,  or 
the  tea-time,  or  the  breakfast-time,  or  some 
thing  that  is  fixed  and  settled,  and  that  is 
the  end  of  it.  Why,  at  the  end  of  the  week 
you  won't  think  much  about  it ;  when  seven 


222  SITS  OF  TALK. 

o'clock  comes,  or  eight  o'clock,  whatever 
your  bed-time  is,  you  will  go,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  you'll  see  how  much  happier 
you'll  be.  You  will  save  ever  so  many 
pricks  !  Try  it ! 

And  it  would  be  just  so  with  all  the  things 
which  children  have  to  do  which  they  don't 
like  to  do  and  all  the  things  which  they 
want  to  do,  and  can't ;  all  such  things  are 
things  with  pricks.  If  you  fret  and  cry  and 
tease,  that  is  kicking  against  the  pricks,  and 
you  get  dreadfully  hurt.  If  you  say  to  your 
self  resolutely, — 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  I've  got  to  do 
it.  I'll  make  the  best  of  it !  "  That  is  taking 
hold  of  the  thorns  the  right  way,  and  saves 
all  the  scratches. 

There  is  one  more  thing  to  be  said  about 
this  kicking  against  pricks  :  It  always  leaves 
shocking  marks  on  people's  faces. 

You   can   imagine   how   a    boy's    clothes 


KICKING  AGAINST  PEICKS.  22$ 

would  look,  if  he  had  been  in  a  bed  of 
nettles  and  brambles,  and  had  just  plunged 
right  through,  kicking  the  thorny  stems  on 
every  side.  Why,  he  would  look  like  a, 
beggar !  his  clothes  would  hang  in  rags  and 
tatters ;  great  pieces  would  have  been  torn 
out  and  left  behind. 

Now,  our  faces  are  the  clothes  of  our 
souls ;  and  the  strange  thing  is,  that  the 
soul's  clothes  always  show  what  shape  the 
souls  have.  The  body's  clothes  are  quite 
different.  You  can  have  clothes  made  for 
the  body  which*  will  quite  conceal  its  shape ; 
it  may  be  deformed  and  ugly  to  look  at,  and 
yet  good  clothes,  rightly  made,  can  almost 
cover  up  the  deformity.  But  not  so  with  the 
face,  which  is  the  outside  garment  of  the  soul. 

If  you  kick  against  the  pricks  of  life, 
every  kick  leaves  its  mark  on  your  face  ; 
and  if  you  keep  on  kicking,  that  is,  if  you 
keep  on  fretting,  and  whining,  and  teasing, 


224  &IT8  OF 

and  making  a  fuss  about  things  that  can't  be 
helped,  by  and  by  your  face  will  be  all  full 
of  ugly  lines  and  marks  which  are  just  like 
the  rags  and  tatters  which  would  come  on 
your  clothes  if  you  plunged  through  a 
bramble-bed  every  day. 

And  you  can  mend  the  clothes ;  but  you 
can't  possibly  mend  a  face.  The  scowls  and 
the  frowns,  and  the  discontented  looks,  all 
grow  deeper  and  deeper,  the  older  we 
grow  ;  sometimes  we  see  old  men  or  women 
with  faces  so  full  of  such  marks,  that  we  are 
almost  afraid  to  speak  to  them. 

"  Oh,  what  a  cross  old  man  !  "  "  What  an 
ugly  old  woman  !  "  we  say. 

These  are  the  men  and  women  who  began, 
when  they  were  children,  to  kick  against 
pricks,  and  have  never  left  off. 

And  this  is  the  end  of  the  little  sermon 
about  pricks. 

Did  it  not  stick  to  its  text  ? 


FIRST  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD.  225 


MY  FIRST  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD 


heads  peeped  over  my  shoulder, 
And  four  merry  voices  said, 
"  Oh,  Aunty!  tell  us  a  story 

Of  some  journey  you  have  made." 

The  lilac-bush  at  the  window 

Nodded,  and  whispered :  "You  know 
There's  that  one  you  took  in  my  shadow 

Almost  thirty  years  ago." 

I  nodded  back  to  the  lilac, 
"  Good  friend,  your  plumes  are  as  curled 
As  when  I  took,  in  their  shadow, 
My  first  voyage  round  the  world. 

"  But  I  am  so  old  and  weary, 

I  almost  forget  that  sail ; 
If  I  find  I  cannot  tell  it, 
Will  you  finish  me  the  tale?" 
15 


226  SITS  OF  TALK. 

The  lilac-bush  shook  with  laughter, 
And  the  fragrance  floated  in ; 

The  children  crowded  up  closer, 
And  shouted :  "  Begin,  begin  I  " 


"Well,  once  there  was  a  little  girl." 

"That's  you," 

They  cried.    "  Yes,  it  was  I,  but  'twill  not  do 
For  you  to  interrupt. 

"  One  day  in  June 

She  and  her  brother  took  their  books  at  noon 
And  sat  down  on  the  grass,  where  lilacs  made 
A  green  and  purple  tent  with  pleasant  shade. 
They  meant  to  study,  but  the  day  was  hot ; 
And  watching  birds  and  bugs,  they  soon  forgo t 
The  lessons,  and  began  to  idly  trace 
With  pencil-marks  the  atlas's  old  face. 
But  presently,  with  slow  and  sleepy  gait, 
As  if  they  never  heard  of  being  late, 
Two  caterpillars  crawled  up  on  the  map, 
And  stopped,  and  snuffed,  and  made  their  feelers 

snap 

With  wisest  look,  on  land  and  on  the  sea. 
1  Halloo  1  old  fellows,'  cried  the  boy.    « You'll  be 


FIRST  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD.  22? 

Two  travelled  worms,  and  you  shall  draw  our 

ships. 

Go  faster,  now,  or  you  shall  feel  the  whips.' 
Just  then  two  dainty  apple-blossoms  blew 
Down  in  their  laps:  one  pink,  one  white.    'Ana 

you 
Shall  be  our  ships.'  he  cried;   'one  called  "The 

Rose," 
The  other,  "  Snow-bird."  > 

"  Then  his  sister  chose 

<  The  Rose 9  for  hers ;  and  with  fine  silken  strings 
They  made  the  caterpillars,  helpless  things, 
Fast  to  the  ships,  then  watched  to  see  them  start. 
Oh  I  ne'er  before  did  worms  play  such  a  part ; 
Oh  I  ne'er  before  such  ships  go  gliding  through 
The  seas.    Each  child  a  curving  stamen  picked 
From  out  a  tiger-lily  bud,  and  pricked 
The  sluggish  caterpillars  right  and  left 
Until  they  must  have  been  of  sense  bereft, 
If  any  sense  they  had. 

"'Oh I  now  I  know 

What  I  will  do ;  for  gold  and  pearls  I'll  go 
To  Africa ;  the  good  "  Snow-bird  "  shall  fly 
Past  all  these  islands/  said  the  boy. 


228  SITS  OF  TALK.       ' 

"  <  And  I 

Will  carry  first  a  whole  ship-load  of  bread 
To  these  poor  Irishmen  who  are  half  dead 
With  famine/  said  the  girl;  'then  through  the 

Straits 

Of  old  Gibraltar  I  will  seek  the  gates 
Of  Thebes.    Oh,  dear !  all  of  the  Eiver  Nile 
My  caterpillar  covers  up.    Don't  smile, 
Bad  boy ;  yours  is  as  much  too  big,  and  more, 
To  get  between  Madeira  and  the  shore. 
The  open  ocean  is  a  better  place 
For  ships  towed  at  a  caterpillar's  pace. 
Fm  going  round  the  world,  like  Captain  Cook: 
Here  is  the  very  track  marked  out  he  took.' 
'  And  so  will  I,'  cried  he ;  <  see  who  will  win : 
The  ship  that  without  cheating  first  gets  in 
Shall  be  the  champion  ship.' 

"  Then  hard  and  fast 
The  poor  worms'  legs  were  pricked.    They  hurried 

past 

Whole  continents  in  seconds.    Side  by  side 
These  funny  racers  crawled.    No  time  nor  tide 
Made  odds  to  them:  they  thought  but  of  escape. 
At  last,  just  as  the  *  Snow-bird '  round  the  Capo 
Of  Good  Hope  turned,  lo  I  in  a  fuzzy  ball 


FIRST  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD.  229 

Her  caterpillar  rolled  him  up,  and  no 

Amount  of  pricks  and  shoves  could  make  him  go 

Another  step,  or  straighten  out.    The  race 

"Was  over,  but '  The  Rose '  kept  on  apace ; 

Poor  caterpillar  I  patient  o'er  and  o'er 

Cook's  track  in  seventeen  seventy-three  and  four, 

Through  Artie  seas  and  past  firm  fields  of  ice, 

Past  tropic  isles,  where  trade-winds    load   with 

spice, 
He  toiled.    At  last  the   play   grew   dull.    « The 

Kose' 

Wtnt  into  port;  the  '  Snow-bird '  too ;  then  those 
Young  tyrants  set  their  victims  free ;  more  dead 
Than  live,  the  puzzled  worms,  with  feeble  tread, 
Stole  off,  and  ever  after  were  esteemed, 
No  doubt,  in  their  own  country,  as  beseemed 
Such  travellers. 

"  As  for  the  girl  and  boy, 

They  grew  up  just  like  all  the  rest,  through  joy 
And  grief,  '  with  books,  and  work,  and  healthful 

Play;' 

But  always  they  remembered  well  this  day ; 
And  when  they  journeyed  in  good  earnest,  said, 
Sometimes  with   pensive  laugh:    '  That  trip  we 

made 


230  BITS  OF  TALK. 

By  map,  beneath  the  lilac-bush,  was  best ; 
No  noise,  no  smoke,  no  cinders  to  molest 
On  land;  no  stormy  gales  on  any  sea; 
Rivers  and  roads,  hotels  and  harbors  free ; 
Each  step  of  that  we  both  remember  yet, 
While  last  year's  jaunts  we  jumble  and  forget. 
Oh  I  sweet,  wise  days,  when  caterpillars  made 
Fast  time  enough  for  us  'neath  lilac's  shade ; 
And  fancy  was  so  strong  that  we  took  trips 
Round  the  whole  world  in  apple-blossom  ships.' " 

Four  mouths  stretching  round  my  shoulder, 

Put  sweet  kisses  on  my  lips ; 
"  Oh !  Aunty,  what  funny  stories! 
How  jolly  about  the  ships  I  " 

And  just  then  a  caterpillar, 
Who  had  listened  to  each  word, 

Tumbled  down,  quite  blind  with  terror, 
Into  the  mouth  of  a  bird. 

And  the  lilac-bush  at  the  window 

Nodded  at  me  with  a  laugh, 
And  whispered:  "You're  growing  so  old 

You've  forgotten  more  than  half." 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  23! 


"A  GOOD  TIME." 

T  TOW  often  we  hear  the  phrase.  It  is  in 
everybody's  mouth  ;  grown  people's  as 
well  as  children's.  I  think  there  is  no  other 
phrase  we  hear  half  so  often.  "  Did  you 
have  a  good  time  ? "  "  Come  and  see  us ; 
we'll  have  a  right  good  time  !  "  "  What 
shall  we  do  for  a  good  time,  to-day  ?  "  "  Oh, 
what  a  good  time  we  have  had  !  "  or ,  "  Dear 
me,  we  haven't  had  a  bit  good  time  I  "  Are 
not  countless  such  sentences  as  these  heard 
on  every  side,  every  hour  of  every  day? 

Everybody  wants  to  have  a  good  time,  all 
the  time,  day  in  and  day  out.  Hardly  any 
body  does  have  a  good  time,  so  much  of 
the  time  as  that.  Almost  everybody's  good 
times  come  once  in  a  while :  an  afternoon, 


232  SITS  OF  TALE. 

or  an  evening,  or  a  clay ;  or  sometimes,  per 
haps,  a  great  treat  of  a  week,  or  a  month, 
spent  on  a  visit  or  a  journey. 

Some  people  would  say  that  it  is  selfish 
and  silly  to  he  all  the  while  wanting  to  have 
a  good  time ;  that  we  ought  to  just  do  our 
duty,  and  not  mind  whether  we  have  a  good 
time  or  not.  I  do  not  think  so.  I  think  it 
is  only  natural  to  want  to  have  a  good  time  ; 
nobody  can  help  liking  to  have  a  good  time. 
A  person  who  says  he  doesn't  care  about  it, 
has  something  out  of  order  in  him  some 
where,  in  his  body  or  his  soul :  either  he  is 
ill,  or  he  is  a  hypocrite.  It  is  not  only 
natural  to  want  to  have  a  good  time,  it  is 
sensible ;  could  anything  be  sillier  than  to 
let  ourselves  be  uncomfortable,  and  mis 
erable,  and  forlorn,  if  we  can  help  it?  Why 
should  we? 

But  we  must  stop  a  minute,  and  make  sure 
what  we  mean  by  the  words  "a  good  time,' 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  233 

before  we  gc  any  further.  Once  I  heard  a 
little  boy  say,  — 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  jolly  good  time,  this 
afternoon  !  "  and  I  said  to  him,  — 

"  What  is  '  a  good  time,'  Freddy  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  minutes  with 
out  speaking.  Then  he  said,  — 

"Ponds,  and  fishes  in  'em,  and  lots  of 
grasshoppers  for  bait." 

That  was  the  particular  kind  of  good  time 
he  was  going  to  have,  that  afternoon. 

Another  time,  I  asked  a  little  girl  the 
same  question.  She  had  just  come  to 
the  house  where  I  was  stopping,  and  had 
asked  two  other  little  girls  who  lived 
there  to  come  and  spend  the  afternoon  with 
her. 

"  Oh,  do  let  them  come  ! "  she  said  to  the 
little  girls'  mother.  "Do  !  do  !  We'll  have 
a  real  good  time." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  I  asked. 


234  BITS  OF 

"We're  going  berrying,"  she  replied. 
"  The  pasture's  just  full  of  blueberries." 

Now  do  you  think  it  was  really  the  fishes 
or  the  blueberries  which  made  the  good 
time  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it ! 

Sticking  grasshoppers  on  a  hook  is  a  dis 
agreeable  thing  to  do,  and  leaning  over  the 
edge  of  a  boat  by  the  hour  at  a  time  makes 
any  boy's  back  ache ;  and  as  for  picking 
berries  off  low  bushes,  in  a  field  where  the 
sun  shines  hot  as  it  does  in  July,  it  is  just 
as  tiresome  a  thing  as  one  could  find  to  do. 
No  !  The  "  good  time "  was  in  this :  that 
catching  the  fishes,  and  seeing  how  many 
they  could  catch  before  supper-time,  and 
trying  hard  to  fill  their  pails  with  blue 
berries  before  it  was  time  to  go  home,  would 
make  the  time  pass  so  pleasantly  to  the  chil 
dren,  that  it  would  be  sundown  before  they 
would  think  it  was  more  than  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon ;  and  they  would  wish  they 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  23$ 

could  have  another  afternoon  joined  right 
on,  without  any  night  between.  This  was 
the  one  secret  of  their  good  time, — being 
busy. 

Even  if  it  is  being  busy  with  things  which 
it  would  be  better  not  to  do,  it  still  makes 
people  have  a  certain  sort  of  good  time ; 
young  people,  for  instance,  who  dance  all 
night,  till  they  are  tired  out ;  or  old  people 
who  play  cards  half  the  night ;  and  middle- 
aged  people  who  play  billiards,  or  cricket, 
or  race  in  yachts,  or  with  horses.  What 
everybody  is  seeking  after  is  something 
which  shall  keep  him  from  being  idle. 
There  is  a  dreadful  phrase  which  you  often 
hear  among  people  who  have  not  enough 
to  do, —  it  is  "  passing  time  away  ;  "  "  killing 
time,"  also,  they  sometimes  call  it.  Isn't 
that  a  terrible  expression  to  come  from  the 
lips  of  a  human  being,  who  will  not  have,  at 
the  outside,  more  than  seventy  or  eighty 


236  BITS  OF  TALK. 

years'  of  time  ?  not  half  enough  to  do  all 
that  a  man  or  woman  ought  to  want  to  do 
in  this  world  I 

"  Killing  time  1 "  Killing  is  a  very  true 
word  there,  for  it  is  like  a  wicked  murder 
to  waste  time. 

All  these  expressions  show  how  strong 
the  desire  is,  in  everybody,  to  have  a  good 
time ;  and  that  everybody  has  an  instinct 
that  the  way  to  have  a  good  time  is  to  have 
always  something  to  do. 

Now  the  mistake  that  most  people  make 
about  it  is,  that  they  think  the  "something 
to  do  "  must  be  provided  for  them  by  some 
body  else;  must  be  forced  upon  them,  as 
you  might  say.  They  are  to  sit  still  and 
wait,  as  if  this  life  were  a  sort  of  great 
tea-party,  where  occupation  and  amusement 
were  to  be  passed  round  like  refreshments, 
and  it  would  not  be  polite  to  do  anything 
but  wait  quietly  till  your  turn  came  to  bo 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  237 

helped.  I  see  crowds  of  people  everywhere, 
who  are  really  doing  this  absurd  thing, 
though  they  don't  know  it.  These  are  the 
people  that  you  often  hear  say  of  a  place,  - 

"Oh,  it  is  a  frightfully  dull  place,"  or  of 
a  summer  or  a  winter  that  they  have  just 
passed,  — 

w  It  has  been  such  a  stupid  summer,"  or 
"  It  was  a  stupid  winter ;  nothing  going 
on." 

Sometimes,  when  I  hear  people  saying  such 
things  as  these,  I  wonder  that  God  does  not 
punish  them  instantly  for  their  ingratitude 
to  Him.  I  am  sure  if  any  earthly  king  had 
fitted  up  a  place  half  as  beautiful  as  this 
world,  and  half  as  full  of  lovely  things  to 
see,  and  wonderful  things  to  learn,  and  had 
given  it  to  a  few  men  and  women  for  their 
own,  and  then  they  were  to  walk  up  and 
down,  and  sit  about,  lazy  and  sleepy,  and 
complain  that  it  was  "dull,"  and  "stupid," 


238  BITS  OF  TALK. 

the  king  would  turn  them  all  out  pretty 
quick.  Wouldn't  he?  He  would  say, — 

"  You  are  a  good-for-nothing  set  of  vaga 
bonds.  I  think  you  must  be  idiots.  You 
do  not  deserve  anything  but  a  desert  to  live 
in ;  and  it  would  not  be  a  bit  too  hard  pun 
ishment  for  you  to  have  your  eyes  put  out 
and  your  hands  cut  off,  if  you  will  not  use 
them  to  any  purpose.  Clear  out  I  Clear 
out  I  I  won't  have  you  here.  I'll  find  some 
other  kind  of  beings  to  put  in  my  world." 

Now  the  truth  is,  there  is  not  a  "dull" 
spot  on  this  earth,  not  one ;  and  there  ought 
not  to  be  a  "dull"  moment  in  any  human 
being's  life,  not  one.  The  barrenest  place 
you  can  find,  has  enough  in  it  for  a  man  to 
study  for  his  whole  lifetime,  and  then  he 
wouldn't  have  learned  all  that  could  be 
learned  about  it.  You  can  sit  down  any 
where  you  like  out  of  doors,  and  even 
within  reach  of  your  hand  there  will  be 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  239 

more  things  than  you  can  count,  that  you 
do  not  know  anything  about;  things  that 
you  could  not  understand  without  having 
studied  at  least  half-a-dozen  different  sciences. 
Why,  it  is  enough  to  make  us  unhappy,  just 
to  look  closely  down  at  any  one  square  inch 
of  ground,  at  the  little  grains  of  earth,  the 
blades  of  grass,  the  weeds,  the  strange  live 
creatures  it  holds,  and  think  how  little  we 
know  about  them ;  and  then,  to  think  that  if 
we  brought  a  good  strong  microscope  and 
put  it  above  that  square  inch  of  ground,  we 
should  discover  hundreds  more  of  growths 
and  living  creatures  too  small  to  be  seen  oy 
our  poor  eyes,  and  much  more  wonderful 
than  the  things  they  can  see. 

Now  isn't  it  a  strange  thing  that  anybody 
should  ever  call  any  place  "  dull"  on  such  an 
earth  as  that  ?  Isn't  it  strange  that  anybody 
can  help  having  "  a  good  time  "  here  ? 

I  think  the  more  natural  thing  would  be 


240  BITS  OF  TALK. 

for  us  to  be  half  ready  to  cry,  all  the  time, 
because  there  is  so  much  to  see,  so  much  to 
do,  so  much  to  learn,  that  there  isn't  one- 
quarter  time  enough  in  any  one  day,  and 
not  half  days  enough  in  the  longest  lifetime. 

One  great  trouble  about  people's  having 
"a  good  time"  is,  that  they  do  not  begin 
young  enough  to  form  the  habit  of  provid 
ing  it  for  themselves.  When  I  hear  boys 
or  girls  say  to  their  mother  — 

"  What  shall  I  do  next?  "  I  always  think 
to  myself,  "  Dear  me  !  what  a  pity !  Why 
doesn't  their  mother  make  them  find  out  for 
themselves  what  to  do  ?  " 

There  is  not  a  boy  who  cannot  keep  busy, 
if  he  tries,  not  a  girl  who  cannot  find  plenty 
to  do,  if  she  likes,  in-doors  and  out-doors, 
daytimes  and  evenings  ;  there  are  more  things 
to  be  looked  at,  more  books  to  be  read ; 
more  things  to  be  contrived  and  made  by 
fingers,  than  any  boy  or  girl  can  get  through 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  241 

with,  before  childhood  is  over,  and  manhood 
and  womanhood  begin.  Almost  every  child 
has  some  one  thing  it  likes  best  to  do.  I 
know  a  boy  who  has  a  passion  for  bugs ; 
it  keeps  him  hard  at  work  all  the  time  he 
can  get  out  of  school ;  in  the  summer  he 
catches  every  winged  creature  he  can  find  ; 
in  the  winter  he  arranges  them,  and  studies 
about  them ;  he  has  already  a  collection 
wlrch  any  naturalist  might  be  glad  to  own, 
and  in  the  hours  he  has  spent  out  of  doors, 
he  has  learned  a  great  many  other  things 
about  nature  besides  what  he  knows  about 
bugs.  That  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  wonderful  things  about  knowledge  :  that 
no  one  bit  of  knowledge  is  alone  by  itself; 
it  has  others  which  are  so  closely  connected 
with  it,  that  if  you  know  one  well,  you  are 
sure  to  know  the  others ;  just  as  if  you 
know  a  person  very  intimately,  you  are 
pretty  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  know  his 
16 


242  SITS  OF  TALK. 

brothers  and  sisters,  and  even  his  aunts  and 
uncles  and  cousins.  It  is  quite  likely  that 
this  boy  will  be  a  great  naturalist  when  he 
grows  up ;  that  is,  he  will  devote  his  whole 
life  to  studying  the  earth  and  the  creatures 
that  live  on  it.  But  even  if  he  does  not,  if 
he  becomes  a  business-man,  or  a  doctor,  or 
a  lawyer,  he  will  be  happier  all  his  life  for 
knowing  about  bugs.  When  he  goes  into 
the  country,  he  will  never  find  it  "  dull." 
Every  corner  of  the  fields  will  be  full  of 
interest  to  him,  and  he  will  help  his  own 
boys  have  "a  good  time,"  just  as  he  used  to 
have  it  when  he  was  a  boy  himself. 

I  know  a  little  girl,  too,  who  has  a  love 
for  making  little  dishes  out  of  clay.  She 
makes  little  bowls,  and  pitchers,  and  plates, 
and  then  she  paints  stripes  or  figures  of  gay 
colors  on  them ;  she  has  quite  a  little  china- 
shop  of  her  own.  When  other  children 
would  be  asking,  perhaps,  what  they  should 


"A  GOOD  TIME."  243 

do,  or  what  game  they  should  play,  Caddie 
sits  down  and  makes  a  new.  wash-bowl  and 
pitcher  for  her  baby-house, 

Now  I  don't  mean,  by  telling  you  these 
stories,  to  make  you  think  that  all  boys  must 
catch  bugs,  or  all  girls  make  clay  pitchers ; 
only  that  each  child  ought  to  find  some  one 
thing  it  likes  best,  and  spend  time  enough  on 
it  to  do  it  well ;  you  can  do  one  thing  one 
year,  and  another  thing  the  next  year,  per 
haps  :  make  a  collection  of  bugs  one  summer, 
and  of  flowers  the  next ;  draw  one  winter, 
and  paint  the  next ;  it  is  not  so  much  matter 
what  it  is,  so  long  as  you  care  enough  about 
it  to  like  to  do  it,  and  to  keep  at  it  till  you 
do  it  as  well  as  it  can  be  done ;  or  at  least 
as  well  as  it  can  be  done  by  you.  When 
you  love  any  one  thing,  like  this,  you  will 
always  have  it  in  your  own  power  to  have  "a 
good  time  ; "  no  place  can  be  "  stupid  "  to 
you ;  no  day  "dull, "and  the  chances  are  that 


244  BITS  OF 

you  will  in  many  ways  get  a  great  deal  of 
good  out  of  this  one  thing  you  can  do. 
Somebody  said  once,  "  a  man  will  always 
make  his  way  in  life  if  he  can  do  any  one 
thing  better  than  anybody  else  can  do  it ;  if 
it  is  only  making  a  toothpick  !  " 

And  I  think  it  was  Dr.  Johnson  who  said 
that  happiness  had  only  these  ingredients  : 

1.  Health. 

2.  A  little  more  money  than  you  need. 

3.  A  little  less  time  than  you  want. 

"A  little  less  time  than  you  want  ?  "  That 
means,  always  to  have  so  many  things  you 
want  to  see,  to  have,  and  to  do  ;  that  no 
day  is  quite  long  enough  for  all  }rou  think 
you  would  like  to  get  done  before  you  go  to 
bed. 

This  is  the  one  great  secret  of  w  A  Good 
Time,"  and  it  is  a  secret  which  never  wears 
out.  This  kind  of  "  good  time  "  lasts  as  long 
as  yon  live. 


Messrs.    Roberts   Brothers'  Publications. 

BITS    OF   TALK 

ABOUT   HOME    MATTERS. 
BY  H.  H. 

Auiuor  of  "  Verses"  and  "  Bits  of  Travel"    S quart 
\Zrno.     Cloth,  red  edges.     Price,  $:.oo. 


"  A  NEW  GOSPEL  FOR  MOTHERS.  —  We  wish  that  every  mother  In 
the  land  would  read  '  Bits  of  Talk  about  Home  Matters,'  by  H.  H.,  and 
that  they  would  read  it  thoughtfully.  The  latter  suggestion  is,  however, 
wholly  unnecessary  :  the  book  seizes  one's  thoughts  and  sympathies,  33 


only  startling  truths  presented  with  direct  earnestness  can  do.  ...  The 
adoption  of  her  sentiments  would  wholly  change  the  atmosphere  in  many 
a  house  to  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  bring  almost  constant  sunshine  and 


bliss  where  now  too  often  are  storm  and  misery."  — Laturtnce  (Kansas) 
Journal. 

"  In  the  little  book  entitled  '  Bits  of  Talk,'  by  H.  H.,  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  have  given  to  the  world  an  uncommonly  useful  collection  of 
essays,  —  useful  certainly  to  all  parents,  and  likely  to  do  good  to  all  chil 
dren.  Other  people  have  doubtless  held  as  correct  views  on  the  subjects 
treated  here,  though  few  have  ever  advanced  them  ;  and  none  that  we  are 
aware  have  made  them  so  attractive  as  they  are  made  by  H.  H.'s  crisp 
and  sparkling  style.  No  one  opening  the  book,  even  though  without  rea 
son  for  special  interest  in  its  topics,  could,  after  a  glimpse  at  its  pages, 
lay  it  down  unread  ;  and  its  bright  and  witty  scintillations  will  fix  many  a 
precept  and  establish  many  a  fact.  '  Bits  of  Talk  '  is  a  book  that  ought 
to  have  a  place  of  honor  in  every  household  ;  for  it  teaches,  not  only  the 
true  dignity  of  parentage,  but  of  childhood.  As  we  read  it,  we  laugh  and 
cry  with  the  author,  and  acknowledge  that,  since ^the  child  is  father  of 
the  man,  in  being  the  champion  of  childhood,  she  is  the  champion  of  the 
whole  coming  race.  Great  is  the  rod,  but  H.  H.  is  not  its  prophet  1"  — 
M~s.  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  in  Newburyport  Herald. 


Sold  everywhere.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  pub 
lishers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

RAMONA:   A  STORY. 

BY  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.). 

I2mo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.50. 


TJjf  Atlantic  Monthly  says  of  the  author  that  she  is  "a  MuriDo 
in  literature,"  and  that  the  story  "  is  one  of  the  most  artistic 
creations  of  American  literature."  Says  a  l^dy  :  ''Tome  it  is  the 
most  distinctive  piece  of  work  we  have  had  in  this  country  since 
k  Uncle  Tom's  Cab:n,'  and  its  exquisite  finish  of  style  is  beyond  that 
classic."  "The  book  is  truly  an  American  novel,"  says  the  Boston 
Advertiser.  "  Ramor.a  is  one  of  the  n.est  charming  creations  ol 
modern  fiction,"  says  Charles  D  Warner  "  The  romance  of  the 
story  is  irresistibly  fascii.ating,"  says  The  Independent. 

"  The  best  novel  written  by  a  woman  sii.ce  Gaorge  Eliot  died,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  is  Mrs.  Jackson's  *  Ramona  '  What  action  is  there  ' 
What  motion  I  How  entrainant  it  is!  It  carries  us  aiong  as  if 
mounted  on  a  swift  horse's  back,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  it  is 
only  when  we  return  for  a  second  reading  that  we  can  appreciate 
the  fine  handling  of  the  characters,  and  especially  the  Spanish 
mother,  drawn  with  a  stroke  as  keen  and  ^rm  as  that  which 
portrayed  George  Eliot's  '  Dorothea.'  "  —  T.  W.  Higgim,on. 

Unsolicited  tribute  of  a  stranger,  a  iady  in  Wisconsin  :  — 

"  I  beg  leave  to  thank  you  with  an  intense  heartiness  for  your 
public  espousal  cf  the  cause  of  the  Indian.  In  your  'Century  of 
Dishonor '  you  showed  to  the  country  its  own  disgrace.  In 
'Ramona'you  have  dealt  most  tenderly  with  the  Indians  as  men 
and  women.  You  have  shown  that  their  stoicism  is  not  indiffer- 
ence,  that  their  squalor  is  not  always  of  their  own  choosing.  You 
have  shown  the  tender  grandeur  of  their  love,  the  endurance  of 
their  constancy.  While,  by  '  Ramona,'  you  have  made  your  name 
immortal,  you  have  done  something  which  is  far  greater  You  are 
but  one:  they  are  many.  You  have  helped  those  who  cannot  heip 
themselves.  As  a  novel,  'Ramona'  must  stand  beside  'Romola,' 
both  as  regards  literary  excellence  and  the  portrayal  of  life's  deepest, 
most  vital,  most  solemn  interests.  I  think  nothing  in  literature 
since  G<"  Msmith's  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield  '  equals  your  description  of 
the  flight  of  Ramona  and  Alessandro.  Such  delicate  pathofi  and 
tender  joy,  such  cure  conception  of  life's  realities,  and  such  loftiness 
Of  self-abnegacing  love  !  How  much  richer  and  happier  the  world 
C>  with  '  Ramona  '  in  it. !  " 

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The  sparrow  again  waited  until  the  child  had  almost  reached  him." 


SPARROW  THE  TRAMP. 

HOEFT.     With  illustrations  by  Jessie  McDermott.     Price,  $1.25. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON. 


"H.  H.'s"   CAT   STORIES. 


MAMMY  TITTLEBACK  AND  HER  FAMIL 

A    TRUE   STORY  OF  SEVENTEEN   CATS. 

• 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   ADDIE   LEDYARD. 

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EGBERTS  BROTHERS.  Publishers. 


Messrs.   Roberts   Brothers    Publications. 

NELLVS  SILVER  MINE, 

BY    H.    H. 

With  Illustrations.     i6mo,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 


"  The  sketches  of  life,  especially  of  its  odd  and  out-of-the-way  aspects,  by  H.  H. 
always  possess  so  vivid  a  reality  that  they  appear  more  like  the  actual  scenes  than 
jmy  copy  by  pencil  or  photograph.  They  form  a  series  of  living  pictures,  radiant 
*with  sunlight  and  fresh  as  morning  dew.  In  this  new  story  the  fruits  of  her  fine 
genius  are  of  Colorado  growth,  and  though  without  the  antique  flavor  of  her  recol 
lections  of  Rome  and  Venice,  aie  as  delicious  to  the  taste  as  they  are  tempting  to 
the  eye,  and  afford  a  natural  feast  of  exquisite  quality."  —  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"This  charming  little  book,  written  for  children's  entertainment  and  instruc 
tion,  is  equally  delightful  to  the  fathers  and  mothers.  It  is  life  in  New  England, 
an4  the  racy  history  of  a  long  railway  journey  to  the  wilds  of  Colorado.  The 
children  are  neither  imps  nor  angels,  but  just  such  children  as  are  found  in  every 
happy  home.  The  pictures  are  so  graphically  drawn  that  we  feel  well  acquainted 
with  Rob  and  Nelly,  have  travelled  with  them  and  climbed  mountains  and  found 
silver  mines,  and  know  all  about  the  rude  life  made  beautiful  by  a  happy  fan  ily, 
and  can  say  of  Nelly,  with  their  German  neighbor,  Mr.  Kleesman,  '  Ach  well,  she 
haf  better  than  any  silver  mine  in  her  own  self.'  "  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

i  "In  'Nelly's  Silver  Mine'  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  has  given  us  a  true 
classic  for  the  nursery  and  the  school-room,  but  its  readers  will  not  be  confined  to 
any  locality.  Its  vivid  portraiture  of  Colorado  life  and  its  truth  to  child-nature 
give  it  a  charm  which  the  most  experienced  cannot  fail  to  feel.  It  will  stand  by 
the  side  of  Miss  Edgeworth  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  in  all  the  years  to  come."  —  Mrs. 
Caroline  H.  Dall. 

'  We  heartily  commend  the  book  for  its  healthy  spirit,  its  lively  narrative,  and 
its  freedom  from  most  of  the  faults  of  books  for  children."  —  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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LETTERS   FROM  A  CAT. 

Published  by  her  Mistress  for  the  Benefit  of  all  Cats  and  the  Amus 
ment  of  Little  Children.  With  seventeen  Illustrations  by  ADDIE  LEDYAB 
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LOUISA  M,  ALCOTT'S  STOEY-BOOKS, 


A  CHRISTMAS    DREAM. 


LULU'S     LIBRARY. 

4    COLLECTION    OF    STORIES    BY    "AUNT    JO, 

With  Illustrations  by  JESSIE  McDERMOTT. 

3  vols.    I6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.00  per  volume. 

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BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications, 

BY  THE   AUTHOR   OF    "THE    BROWNS." 

JOLLY  GOOD  TIMES;  OR,  CHILD  LIFE  ON  A  FARM. 
JOLLY  GOOD  TIMES  AT  SCHOOL 

Two  volumes,  with  illustrations,  neatly  bound  in  cloth.     Price  $1.25  each, 

"  Allow  me  to  express,  unasked,  the  zest  and  satisfaction  with  which  I  nave 
read  your  new  children's  book,  '  Jolly  Good  Times;  or,  Child  Life  on  a  Farm.' 
The  author's  name  is  wholly  new  to  me;  but  I  am  delighted  that  while  our 
novelists  are  apt  to  ignore  the  joyous  country-life  of  New  England,  or  to  treat 
it  as  something  bare  and  barren,  it  should  still  be  printed  in  its  true  colors  for 
children.  A  few  literary  faults  can  easily  be  pardoned  in  a  writer  who  describes 
thus  graphically  the  healthy  pleasures  of  country  children,  putting  so  much  oxygen 
into  her  story  that  it  is  like  a  whiff  of  wholesome  air  among  the  prevailing  exotic 
flavors."  —  From  a  letter  by  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 

"'Jolly  Good  Times'  and  'Jolly  Good  'Times  at  School,'  are  two  books  for 
children,  written  by  P.  Thorne.  Teddy  and  Millicent  and  all  the  other  little  ones 
in  these  jolly  good  times  are  the  envy  of  our  '  ten-year-olders'  who  are  shut  up 
in  the  city  nearly  the  whole  year  round.  The  writer  of  these  books  must  have 
a  gleeful  heart  and  a  quick  sympathy  with  children  ;  she  tells  of  their  pranks 
and  droll  ways  with  an  evident  enjoyment,  and  has  given  to  her  little  readers 
an  entertaining  story." —  Christian  Union. 

"  '  Jolly  Good  Times '  not  only  deserves  its  title,  but  the  further  praise  of  being 
pronounced  a  jolly  good  book.  The  Kendall  children  and  their  neighbors  and 
playmates  live  in  the  Connecticut  valley,  not  far  from  Deerfield,  and  we  are  given 
a  sketch  of  their  life  during  one  period,  from  the  breaking  up  of  winter  till  the 
appearance  of  snow  just  after  Thanksgiving.  The  merit  of  the  story  lies  in  its 
evident  biographical  truth.  .  .  .  The  result  is  a  charming  local  picture,  quite 
worth  the  attention  of  English  boys  and  girls,  as  showing  what  New  England 
life  is  in  a  respectable  farmer's  family,  —  plain  folks  who  do  their  own  work,  but 
entirely  free  from  the  low-comic  variety  of  Yankee  talk  and  manners  too  often 
considered  essential  to  the  success  of  a  New  England  story." —  The  Nation. 

"  'Jolly  Good  Times'  is  a  story  of  country  life,  evidently  written  by  one  who 
is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  subject.  It  is  redolent  of  rural  odors,  vocal 
with  rural  sounds,  and  instinct  with  the  simple  sweetness  of  old  New  England 
life.  .  .  .  The  children  are  real  creatures,  compounds  of  good  and  evil,  full  of 
spirit,  yet  amiable  and  obedient.  Teddy,  like  Artemus  Ward's  kangaroo,  is  very 
'amoosin,'  and  some  of  his  predicaments  are  very  laughable.  The  chapter 
in  which  the  quiet  passage  of  a  country  Sunday  is  described  is  remarkable  for  its 
fidelity  to  fact  and  its  graceful  expression.  '  Jolly  Good  Times '  is  as  pure  as  a 
summer  sky,  and  exhilarates  without  exciting."  — Literary  World,  Boston. 

"  P.  Thorne  is  a  pseudonym  pleasantly  associated  in  the  minds  of  the  readers 
of  the  '  Register  '  with  many  bright  and  earnest  contributions  to  its  columns.  She 
is  also  the  author  of  one  of  the  successful  children's  books  of  last  year;  and  the 
present  little  work.  '  Jolly  Good  Times  at  School."  is  in  some  sort  a  sequel  to  her 
former  venture.  It  is  also  an  improvement  upon  it  in  both  matter  and  manner. 
Pleasing  pictures  it  gives  us  of  the  school  and  child-life  of  New  England  as  it 
existed  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  as  it  still  exists  in  the  more  secluded  and  rural 
districts.  .  .  .  Interwoven  here  and  there  in  the  narrative  are  charming  descrip 
tions  of  the  natural  beauties  and  characteristic  scenes  of  New  England  :  the  '  cold 
snap,'  the  first  snow-storm,  the  exciting  '  coast  down  the  mountain,'  the  '  Indian 
stories,'  &c.,  &c.  In  short,  we  cordially  commend  this  little  book  to  the  seeker 
for  Christmas  gifts."  —  Christian  Register,  Boston. 

Sold  by  all  Booksellers.  Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  pub 
lishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'*  Publications. 

VERSES. 

BY  H.   H. 


A  New  Enlarged  Edition.     Square  iSnto.     Uniform  with 
"  Bits  of  Talk  "  and  "  Bits  of  Travel."     Price  $1.00. 


"The  volume  is  one  which  will  make  H.  H.  dear  to  all  the  lovers  of  true 
poetry.  Its  companionship  will  be  a  delight,  its  nobility  of  thought  and  of  purpose 
an  inspiration.  .  .  .  This  new  edition  comprises  not  only  the  former  little  book 
with  the  same  modest  title,  but  as  many  more  new  poems.  .  .  .  The  best  critics 
have  already  assigned  to  H.  H.  her  high  place  in  our  catalogue  of  authors.  She 
is,  without  doubt,  the  most  highly  intellectual  of  our  female  poets.  .  .  .  The  new 
poems,  while  not  inferior  to  the  others  in  point  of  literary  art,  have  in  them  more 
of  fervor  and  of  feeling  ;  more  of  that  lyric  sweetness  which  catches  the  attention 
and  makes  the  song  sing  itself  over  and  over  afterwards  in  the  remembering  brain. 
.  .  .  Some  of  the  new  poems  seem  among  the  noblest  H.  H.  has  ever  written. 
They  touch  the  high-water  mark  of  her  intellectual  power,  and  are  full,  besides,  oi 
passionate  and  tender  feeling.  Among  these  is  the  '  Funeral  March.'  "  —  N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"A  delightful  book  is  the  elegant  little  volume  of  '  Verses,'  by  H.  H.,— 
instinct  with  the  quality  of  the  finest  Christian  womanhood.  .  .  .  Some  wives  and 
mothers,  growing  sedate  with  losses  and  cares,  will  read  many  of  these  '  Verses' 
with  a  feeling  of  admiration  that  is  full  of  tenderness."  —Advance. 

"  The  poems  of  this  lady  have  taken  a  place  in  public  estimation  perhaps 
higher  than  that  of  any  living  American  poetess.  .  .  .  They  are  the  thoughts  of 
a  delicate  and  refined  sensibility,  which  views  life  through  the  pure,  still  atmos 
phere  of  religious  fervor,  and  unites  all  thought  by  the  tender  talisman  of  love."  — 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  Since  the  days  of  poor  '  L.  E.  L.,'  no  woman  has  sailed  into  fame  under  a 
flag  inscribed  with  her  initials  only,  until  the  days  of'H.  H.'  Here,  however. 
the  parallelism  ceases  ;  for  the  fresh,  strong  beauty  which  pervades  these  '  Verses' 
nas  nothing  in  common  with  the  rather  languid  sweetness  of  the  earlier  writer. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  this  enlarged  volume,  double  the  size  of  that  origi 
nally  issued,  will  place  its  author  not  merely  above  all  American  poetesses  and  all 
living  English  poetesses,  but  above  all  women  who  have  ever  written  poetry  in 
the  English  language,  except  Mrs.  Browning  alone.  '  H.  H.'  has  not  yet  proved 
herself  equal  to  Mrs.  Browning  in  range  of  imagination  ;  but  in  strength  and  depth 
the  American  writer  is  quite  the  equal  of  the  English,  and  in  compactness  and 
Symmetry  altogether  her  superior."  —  T.  W.  H.  in  The  Index. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  Pub' 
Ushers- 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 
MBS.  DODGE'S  POPULAK  BOOK 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  DOROTHY  AT  SIXTEEN. 

DONALD    AND    DOROTHY 

BY   MARY   MAPES   DODGE. 

Beautifully  Illustrated  and  Bound.      Price  #1.50. 

An  honest  tribute  from  an  admiring-  friend. 

"DHAR  MKS.  DODGE,  —  !  have  just  finished  your  book  called  'Donald  ard 
Dorothy'  for  the  third  or  fourth  time,  and  would  like  very  much  to  (enow 
whether  Dorothy  is  a  real  person,  and  if  so,  what  is  her  name  ?  I  am  nearly 
as  old  as  Dorothy  was  at  the  close  of  the  book,  so  am  very  much  interested 
in  her.  I  would  also  like  to  know  how  old  she  is,  and  where  she  lives  li  you 
V90uld  be  kind  enough  to  reply,  you  would  greatly  oblige 

44  Your  admiring  inend." 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS.   PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications^ 

BITS    OF    TRAVEL. 

BY  H.  H. 
Square  iSmo.     Cloth,  red  edges.     Price  $1.25. 

"  Some  one  has  said  that,  if  vtie  could  open  the  mail-bags,  and  read  the 
women's  letters,  they  would  be  m^re  entertaining  than  any  books.  This  vol 
ume  is  an  open  mail-bag,  forwaraed  from  Germany  or  Rome  or  the  Tyrol. 
The  faded  wonders  of  Europe  turn  out  to  be  wholly  fresh,  when  seen  through 
a  tresh  pair  of  eyes  ;  and  so  the  result  is  very  charming.  As  for  the  more 
elaborate  sketch  of  'A  German  Landlady,'  it  cannot  be  forgotten  by  any 
reader  of  the  '  Atlantic.'  Jt  comprises  so  much — such  humor,  such  pathos, 
such  bewitching  quaintness  of  dialect —  that  I  can,  at  this  moment,  think  of 
no  American  picture  of  a  European  subject  to  equal  it.  It  is,  of  course,  the 
best  thing  in  the  volume  ;  but  every  page  is  readable,  and  almost  all  delight 
ful."—  Col.  T.  IV.  Higginson. 

"  The  volume  has  few  of  the  characteristics  of  an  ordinary  book  of  travel. 
It  is  entertaining  and  readable,  from  cover  to  cover ;  and,  when  the  untrav- 
elied  reader  has  finished  it,  he  will  find  that  he  knows  a  great  deal  more  about 
life  in  Europe — having  seen  it  through  intelligent  and  sympathetic  eyes  — 
than  he  ever  got  before  from  a  dozen  more  pretentious  volumes."  —  Hartjord 
Courant. 

"  It  is  a  special  merit  of  these  sketches  that,  by  their  graphic  naturalness 
of  coloring,  they  give  a  certain  vitality  to  scenes  with  which  the  reader  is  not 
supposed  to  be  familiar.  They  do  not  need  the  aid  of  personal  recollection 
to  supply  the  defects  of  the  description.  They  present  a  series  of  vivid  pic 
tures,  which,  by  the  beauty  of  their  composition  and  the  charming  quaintness 
of  their  characters,  form  an  exception  to  the  rule  that  narratives  of  travel  are 
interesting  in  proportion  to  the  reader's  previous  knowledge  of  the  subject. 
In  several  instances,  they  leave  fhe  beaten  track  of  the  tourist ;  but  they 
always  afford  a  fresh  attraction,  and,  if  we  mistake  not,  will  tempt  many  of  our 
countrymen,  in  their  European  reconnoitring,  to  visit  the  scenes  of  which  they 
are  here  offered  so  tempting  a  'oretaste."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Travel  increaseth  a  man.  But,  next  to  going  bodily,  is  to  wander,  through 
the  magical  power  of  print,  whithersoever  one  will.  A  good  book  of  travel 
is  a  summer's  vacation.  This  little  book,  by  Mrs  Hunt,  is  ?.  series  of  rare 
pictures  of  life  in  Germany,  Italy,  and  Venice.  Every  one  is  in  itself  a  gem. 
Brilliant,  chatty,  full  of  fine  feminine  taste  and  feeling,  — just  the  letters  one 
waits  impatiently  to  get,  and  reads  till  the  paper  has  been  fingered  through. 
It  has  been  ouen  observed  that  women  are  the  best  correspondents.  We  can 
not  analyze  the  peculiar  charm  of  their  letters.  It  is  a  part  of  that  mysterious 
personnel  which  is  the  atmosphere  of  every  womanly  woman."  —  Boston 
Courier. 


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by  the  Publishers, 

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Messrs.   Roberts   Brothers'    Publication*. 

BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME 

BY    H.    H. 

Square  i8mo.     Cloth,  red  edges.     Price  $1.50. 


M  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  is  too  well  and  favorably  known  to  need  introduction  to 
American  readers.  Her  poems  are  among  the  most  thoughtful,  vigorous,  and 
truly  imaginative  this  country  has  produced.  She  is  a  poet  to  the  manner  born, 
and  something  of  the  poetic  touch  and  quality  enters  into  her  prose  writings.  Her 
'Hits  of  Travel,'  published  years  ago,  gave  charming  accounts  of  places  and 
scenes  and  experiences  in  Europe.  Her  '  Bits  of  Talk '  were  full  of  wise  and 
useful  suggestions  put  in  exceedingly  felicitous  ways;  they  had  the  sweetnes* 
and  bloom  of  life's  morning  with  the  insight  and  practicality  of  its  mid-day.  Her 
other  books  have  each  widened  her  literary  reputation.  The  little  volume  of  '  Bits 
of  Travel  at  Home'  is  in  her  best  vein.  It  tells  something  of  New  England,  but 
is  chiefly  devoted  to  California  and  Colorado.  She  both  describes  and  paints,  and 
she  intersperses  her  sketches  of  nature  with  cha/ming  pictures  of  human  life  on 
the  frontier  and  in  the  new  communities  springing  up  there.  All  through  the 
closely  printed  book  are  delicate  little  bits  of  description,  cropping  up  like  flowers 
in  a  meadow,  which  the  reader  lingers  over,  and  the  reviewer  longs  to  pluck  for  a 
bouquet  of  quotations.  It  is  a  charming  book  for  summer  reading,  and  will  make 
many  a  dull  day  brighter  by  its  vivacity  and  beauty.  She  gives  five  sunrises  from 
her  calendar  in  Colorado,  and  closes  her  volume  as  follows :  '  O  emperor,  wilt 
thou  not  build  an  eastern  wing  to  thy  palace  and  set  thy  bed  fronting  the  dawn  t 
And  by  emperor  I  mean  simply  any  man  to  whom  it  is  given  to  make  himself  a 
home  ;  and  oy  palace  I  mean  any  house,  however  small,  in  which  love  dwells  and 
On  which  the  sun  can  shine.'  "  — N.  Y.  Express. 

"A  charming  volume.  Those  that  remember  —  and  who  that  read  the  book 
will  forget  —  the  grace,  the  freshness,  the  bright,  piquant  charm  of  the  first  Bits, 
will  be  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  read  a  new  volume  by  a  writer  remarkable 
for  her  humor,  her  quaintness,  and  her  pathos.  Those  that  want  a  thoroughly 
enjoyable  and  entirely  fascinating  book  are  heartily  recommended  to  this."  —  Cin 
cinnati  Times. 

"The  descriptions  of  American  scenery  in  this  volume  indicate  the  imagination 
of  a  poet,  the  eye  of  an  acute  observer  of  Nature,  the  hand  of  an  artist,  and  th« 
heart  of  a  woman. 

"  H.  H.'s  choice  of  words  is  of  itself  a  study  of  color.  Her  picturesque  d:ctioa 
rivals  the  skill  of  the  painter,  and  presents  the  woods  and  waters  of  the  Great 
Wast  with  a  splendor  of  illustration  that  can  scarcely  be  surpassed  by  the  bright 
est  glow  of  the  canvas.  Her  intuitions  of  character  are  no  less  keen  than  het 
perceptions  of  Nature."  —  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.     When 
not  to  be  found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


o 

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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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